


The Lester Rule

by Cutebutpsycho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Female Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:19:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutebutpsycho/pseuds/Cutebutpsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As you get older, it gets harder and harder to find and make close friends -- both Sally Donovan and Molly Hooper realize this. So when you find those friends, you hang onto them with everything you've got.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meet Cute

You know life has taken a turn for the truly pathetic when your mum starts e-mailing you articles not about how a single woman over thirty has a better chance of getting killed in a terrorist attack than having a baby, but instead, why it’s so hard to find friends in your thirties.

“I just saw this and thought of you,” the e-mail started. “I know you say you’re fine and there’s plenty of family to keep you company, but I still worry about you. Work isn’t the only thing in life.”

Sally Donovan, age 34, sighed and clicked on the link. She knew she had to, for the sake of her sanity. Odds were strong that at the next family dinner, Mum would quiz her about the article and really, a quick scan would help to avoid hurt feelings right?

[“No matter how many friends you make, a sense of fatalism can creep in: the period for making B.F.F.’s, the way you did in your teens or early 20s, is pretty much over. It’s time to resign yourself to situational friends: K.O.F.’s (kind of friends) — for now,” ](http://www.nytimes.com/2012/07/15/fashion/the-challenge-of-making-friends-as-an-adult.html?pagewanted=3&_r=2&pagewanted=all)Sally read, before furiously backing out of the article.

No. That was too depressing to read, especially before coffee. She’d have to lie to her mother and say she didn’t have time to read the article or the Internet exploded and all connections to American newspapers were cut off permanently. 

Besides, Sally rationalised, it’s just how it is now. Work kept her too busy to socialise and what friends she had scattered off to the four corners after marrying and having babies or moving because of their careers. 

And social media? Facebook? Really, she had nothing to say, so why bother posting or even joining those things? It was just another thing to do that usually ended in a family feud somewhere, according to her cousins, aunts and uncles. And if there was one thing she needed less of, it was family feuds. 

No. This is how life is, Sally thought to herself. And it’s not a bad life at all. A good job with Scotland Yard, fulfilling work and a comfortable house and life. This is part of growing up. The days of sleepovers, talking all night over cocktails were over now. 

Other people had their lives and she had hers. It really wasn’t that big of a deal -- she was a single woman, living in London and doing exactly what she wanted. What could be better? 

~*~

**BOXING BOOTCAMP STARTING!**

SATURDAY MORNINGS FROM 9:45-10:30

LEARN SOME SELF DEFENSE IN THIS FUN GROUP CLASS THAT FOCUSES ALSO ON CARDIOVASCULAR EXERCISES.

FREE TO ALL MEMBERS! 

Molly Hooper stared at the flyer at her gym and chewed on her lower lip. Even though part of her wanted to tell the writer that an excessive amount of capslock indicated an unhinged mind and the clipart of a cartoon man wielding oversized boxing gloves was less than reassuring, the majority of her thoughts focused on trying the class.

Ever since the Jim incident, Molly started thinking she needed some form of self-defense in her life. Other people assured her that Jim wasn’t going to hurt her and that she wasn’t his target -- Sherlock Holmes was -- and he had disappeared from sight for the past few months, so the odds were slim that she was a target. 

But it never hurts to be prepared, her father’s voice whispered in her head. One class couldn’t hurt, she thought as she began scribbling down the information. At worst, she’d know never to do that again. At best, she’d learn how to defend herself. What did she have to lose? Other than one morning of sleeping in? 

~*~ 

“Now, your jab -- that’s a quick little punch with your left hand, like this --” Gaz the instructor did a quick punch with his left hand. A tall, muscular black man with a shaved head and affable demeanor, Gaz made the move look simple. “The thing with this is that it keeps your opponent away from you. 

“Your feet will move with a little hop like a tap-tap,” he demonstrated. “Now you try.” 

The class -- a group of about fifteen people -- mirrored his movement. Molly felt absolutely silly. Her feet felt like lead and her hands didn’t feel right up near her face. She snuck some surreptitious glances at the other people in her class and immediately felt like a failure. Everyone else looked like they knew what they were doing. She felt like she was doing a bunny hop dance.

The rest of the class didn’t boost her confidence, especially when he started calling out combinations. She kept forgetting the numbers and what they corresponded to, so her right cross became her left hook. She forgot how to pivot and her stance was just feeling strange and wrong. It didn’t look or feel like the sinewy grace Gaz had. Looking in the mirror, she felt lumpy and weird.

“Don’t worry,” Gaz told the class. “Think of it this way -- you all are at different fitness and coordination levels. Some of you are Superman, some are Lois Lane and some are just Homer Simpson. Don’t compare yourself to others, just worry about your progress.”

Small reassurance, Molly thought grimly. That reassurance diminished when he had people line up to do combos with him one-on-one.

Sweat pouring down her neck and breathing heavily, Molly watched enraptured as a black woman did her combos with Gaz. It was clear that she knew was she was doing. Her hands were up around her face and she was bouncing on the balls of her feet, lunging forward with every punch. If Zoe Washburne was real, she would be this woman, Molly thought to herself.

“Good,” Gaz grunted after a particularly quick combo. “Sprint down and back two times, then mountain climbers.”

The woman nodded and took off running, then returned behind Molly to start doing the mountain climbers.

“Bad week at work?” Molly huffed between her mountain climbers. Her back ached and her legs felt like fire, but she would be damned if she was going to show weakness.

The woman breathed out easily, then nodded. “A bit,” she replied.

“You’re pretty good at this. Have you boxed before?”

“A bit.”

Well then, Molly thought, she’s not very chatty. She stopped talking as they finished the class with some stretching. It’s clear that she didn’t really want to talk. Maybe she had stuff on her mind.

Before she left, she felt a hand on her elbow. Turning around, she saw the same woman she was trying to talk to earlier.

“Your punch,” she said. “It’s a bit off.”

“Sorry?”

“Here,” the woman dropped her duffle bag and held out a fist. “Look at my hand -- see how the wrist is straight, knuckles in line with the wrist?”

Molly blinked. “Yeah?”

“Do that,” the woman said. “It’ll keep you from breaking your wrist bones if you punch someone. And keep a tight fist, otherwise your wrist will bend and you’ll end up breaking it.”

“Thanks,” Molly held up her fist. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” the woman smiled -- instantly her demeanor changed. It was a wide, open warm smile that broke through the guarded exterior. “So I’ll see you next week then?”

“Yeah,” Molly said. “Have a better week.”

~*~

Looking back, Sally couldn’t even say why she went to that woman and offered her tips on boxing. It wasn’t something that she normally did. Most people didn’t appreciate her butting her nose into their business, so it was better to be quiet than say something.

Besides, she was never a morning person and Gaz asked her to come to the class (“Come on Sal -- I don’t want this class to be a failure. It’d mean a lot if you were there.”). Nevermind the fact that she already knew how to box thanks to her cousins and uncles, but Gaz asked for a favor, so she went.

It was all basic stuff for the first day -- Sally found herself suppressing the urge to yawn and instead found herself checking out the other classmates. Most of them seemed like bored people looking for a vague thrill, something to brag about while going out for lunch with friends. Then they’d get into their first fight and break a wrist.

One of the few people that stood out -- other than the old black man who joked with her about suffering lung cancer in both lungs, but loving the class -- was this mere slip of a girl, who seemed very serious about the class.

Her wide eyes were locked on Gaz and his every movement -- not in a rapacious way, but as an eager student drinking in every detail and attempting to lock it in her brain. While some people were happy to chat between sprints and lunges, she was practicing her punches and attempting to master the footwork.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t very good. Her footwork seemed leaden and her punches looked more likely that she’d hurt herself before defending herself. But that would change, Sally mused to herself. Soon the muscle memory would take over and she’d improve. Hopefully before she hurt herself. 

She could also feel the woman’s eyes on her back, studying her intently as she worked out simplistic combos with Gaz.

After sprinting forward and back, Sally dropped and began doing the mountain climbers next to the woman.

“Bad week at work?” the girl said, attempting a smile and a small giggle, but it got lost in the heavy breathing.

“A bit,” Sally said. She didn’t want to get into her run-in with The Freak and his pet, the fact that she was behind on paperwork thanks to the ever increasing amount of crime in the city and that article her mum e-mailed her. That would just be a little off-putting right out of the gate when talking to someone. 

“You’re pretty good at this. Have you done this before?” 

Despite the supposed ease of her exterior, Sally’s lungs were burning. A stitch was forming in her side and she was mentally cursing the fact that the sports bra she had was not offering the proper support. 

“A bit,” she said. Saying _I grew up in boxing gyms watching my uncles teach classes to my cousins and then finally got in the ring after a girl at school threatened to kick my arse,_  seemed a bit impossible at the moment.

 By the time everyone was stretching, Sally could tell who would come back the next week and who wouldn’t. She could see it on people’s faces -- there were determined expressions on those planning to return, frowns on the people who weren’t planning to come back. A few were indecisive, like that girl who was talking to Sally.

 Her shoulders were slumped and it looked like she was going to drag her messenger bag back to wherever she had come from. She was chewing on her lip and it looked like she wanted to pepper Gaz with a million questions, but because he was surrounded by people, that was impossible.

 Sally thought she’d see if she could help Gaz out. Reaching over, she gently touched the woman on the elbow.

 Her classmate turned around, startled. That’s when Sally noticed that the girl looked harmless, like the baby rabbits she’d see in Hampstead Heath. Her eyes were wide and there was a slight jolt as she turned to face her.

“Your punch,” Sally coughed. “It’s a bit off.”

The woman’s brow furrowed. “Sorry?” she asked.

That tone was hard for her to read. Sally wasn’t sure if she was overstepping her bounds again or not, but well, she was already there, so why not keep going?

Sally dropped her duffle bag and got into the stance and held out a fist. “Look at my hand -- see how the wrist is straight, knuckles in line with the wrist?”

The woman nodded. “Yeah?”

“Do that,” Sally explained. “It’ll keep you from breaking your wrist bones if you punch someone. And keep a tight fist, otherwise your wrist will bend and you’ll end up breaking it.”

“Thanks,” She held up her fist. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” Sally smiled. The girl was catching on, which was a good sign. She’d pick everything up, but it just took time. “So I’ll see you next week then?” 

“Yeah,” The woman replied. “Have a better week.”

“Thanks,” Sally nodded and left.


	2. Bad weeks, willies and coffee

It wasn’t a better week. But to be fair, it wasn’t a worse one either.

Between boxing classes, Sally Donovan had to endure the following:

1) Inquisition from her mother as to why she didn’t read the article. “Work was mental,” Sally lied. What was worse was that her mum knew she lied, she knew her mother knew and neither said anything about it;

2) Her boss asked the Freak to come and make a visit regarding a murder of a young woman who had red speckles all over her body. Dealing with him was always as pleasant as visit to the dentist; and

3) Some wanker e-mailed his willy to her dating profile. If he was looking for a conversation, that wasn’t how one went about doing it.

Between boxing classes, Molly Hooper endured the following:

1) Sherlock swanned into the morgue demanding access to Julia Stoner. After a bit of cajoling and pleading, Molly finally allowed him access to the body when he noticed her latest haircut and complimented her on the style -- “Really Molly, I do like how how you’ve been wearing your hair lately. The side part is also flattering and you’ve done something different with the bangs --- the side swept look really does suit you.”;

2) Toby had a stomach bug and was sick  everywhere. Not to mention, he refused to use his litterbox for some reason, so it was yet another trip to the vet; and

3) Two coworkers were out sick, so Molly found herself pulling double duty at work. Having Sherlock underfoot also didn’t help, especially when he asked her to ditch an after-work date to help him with the Stoner case. At least he provided coffee.

By the time Saturday rolled around, both women were ready to take out some frustrations on Gaz.

To Sally’s surprise, the wisp of a girl who tried talking to her last week had returned. For some reason, Sally thought she wasn’t going to come back. But seeing her return made her smile -- Gaz’s class might just succeed, despite the fact that several people didn’t return.

Sally noted that her combos and footwork had improved slightly. Her stance was still a bit off, but at least she wasn’t going to fall over and hurt herself. And for some reason she was attacking the combos with a bit more vigor.

“Rough week?” Sally asked during the second set of lunges.

“My cat is ill,” she said. “Forgot where the litterbox was and was being sick everywhere.” The girl colored slightly, as if she realized that she had said too much, but she was unable to stop talking. “And then at work, two people were out so everything fell onto me and this guy who comes into work kept demanding my help --”

“Hey!” they both heard Gaz holler at the class. “Less chat, get those legs at the ninety degrees! If you’re talking, you’re not working.”

Sally rolled her eyes, but the chatter died down. Apparently Gaz even had a bad week, because he hit them extra hard with the lunges, combos and mountain climbers. By the end of the class, her legs were burning and a vaguely queasy feeling was settling in her stomach.

After the class, as some people were staggering out, Sally and the girl were stretching.

“How was your week?” she asked.

“Could’ve been better,” Sally replied.

The girl pouted in empathy. “Oh dear. What happened?”

Before she knew it, her mouth opened and “Well, I had someone e-mail me a picture of his willy to my online dating profile,” popped out. It was Gaz’s fault, Sally thought. The workout had caused her brain to mouth filter to shut down.

The girl’s mouth popped open and she let out a giggle. “Seriously?”

Sally nodded. “I don’t even know why,” she said. “I got a message and suddenly COCK!’”

Both of them began laughing. “Why do men do that?” she asked, then her voice dropped. “Was it even nice?”

Sally shrugged. “No,” she said. “It was --” she chewed on her lip, trying to think of how to describe it, as she felt herself relax, “hairy. Like a smoked sausage shoved in a bird’s nest.”

The girl barked out in laughter. “That’s hideous,” she said, before standing up. “Oh, sorry! Forgot my manners, forgive me. My name is Molly. Molly Hooper --” she held out her hand to Sally.

Sally took it and shook it. “Sally,” she replied. “Sally Donovan.”

~*~

It was one of those magical circumstances -- the kind that only exist in romantic comedies. Two people meet, they get chatting about something funny, next think they know they’re going out for a coffee together and laughing at each others’ jokes and bonding over the little things that irritate them.

Amusingly enough, for Sally and Molly, it was exactly like that. Only not with the romantic part. After two more sessions with Gaz, Sally finally got the courage to ask if Molly was interested in getting coffee after class. From there, everything seemed to flow.

“You were right,” Molly said, peering at Sally’s mobile. “That is a really sad willy to be e-mailing to someone you don’t even know. I think he should also get that mole checked out -- it could be cancerous. The shape and color are just wrong.”

Sally barked out a laugh as Molly handed the mobile back to her. They were sitting in a coffee shop near the gym and enjoying a cup of tea.

“I never understand why men do that,” she reflected. “It’s the fourth one I’ve gotten this week.”

“At least you get that,” Molly sighed. “I don’t get noticed at all.”

“Bollocks. You seem perfectly lovely. I mean, you just diagnosed a perfect stranger’s genitals for a possible skin condition,” Sally grinned at Molly’s shocked face. “Not many people do that. Maybe you just need to try a different approach.”

“I don’t know,” Molly’s sigh deepened more. “I mean, the last date I had, I broke it off after three lunches. It was obvious he wasn’t into me, but another --” her face reddened in embarrassment.

“What?” Sally said. “You can’t get embarassed now. I just showed you a cock.” she lengthened out the word “cock” so it sounded like “caaaaawk.”

Molly laughed and reddened even more. “He was interested in another man.”

Sally winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

A morose silence settled over the table. Sally sipped her tea and watched as Molly fiddled with her cup. It was obvious that they had hit an awkward part of the conversation that Molly didn’t want to dwell on at all.

“OK, ok,” Sally said, breaking the silence. “How about that’s saved for another time -- preferably when we’re pissed and bitching about our love lives?”

Molly smiled. “Deal.”

Before more could be said, both mobiles began buzzing and the two women grabbed their phones and answered them. After a few, brief cursory grunts, Sally hung up her phone only to hear Molly trying to deal with a brewing situation.

“-- Yes, I know, but today is my day off,” Molly sighed, rolling her eyes at Sally. “Fine, fine, I’ll deal with him, but you have to take my shift next Friday. I can’t be the only one who can deal with him. He really isn’t that difficult. Just give him what he wants and leave him alone, simple as that.”

Sally raised an eyebrow as Molly finished bargaining with her caller and hung up the phone.

“Work --” the two women sighed at the same time.

Molly laughed. “Yeah,” she grinned. “Apparently the dead never rest.”

“Who was that you were talking about? Sounds like a rather demanding fellow.”

“He’s a --” Molly struggled for the right words, “A colleague of sorts. Maybe a consultant? I don’t know. All I know is that he’s got clearance to come into my workplace and get access to the bodies.”

Sally blinked. “Bodies? Where do you work?”

Molly gawped in surprise. “Oh! Um, I work at St. Bart’s, in the morgue.”

Sally nodded. “At least the patients don’t complain,” she replied.

Molly began laughing. “So yeah, I’m sorry,” she said, after the giggles died down. “I have to go.”

“It’s all right,” Sally replied. “I’ve got to go also. I got called in also.”

“Really? Where do you work?”

“Scotland Yard,” Sally’s grin got wider. “Actually, I have to meet my boss at the morgue also.”

Molly’s smile matched Sally’s. “Fantastic! Want to share a cab?”

As the women were heading out, Molly asked Sally, “Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?”

“I’m not even sure how to answer that question.”

 


	3. Five Conversations

“Pub or club?” Molly’s voice bounced to the beat of Sally’s punches.

Sally briefly stopped beating on the heavy bag to look up at Molly. They were at the gym practicing their boxing combos. Over the past few weeks, the two of them had started making a weekly appointment to meet at the gym to practice and socialise. Today Molly was holding the heavy bag still while Sally pounded on it, focusing on the rhythm of her combos and dodges. “Neither,” she said after a moment, then began punching again. “I’d rather stay at home and drink.”

“Me too,” Molly tried to smile, but it was hard since Sally’s punch was like a jackhammer and she had to focus on keeping the bag from swinging wildly. “It’s cheaper that way and you don’t have to make awkward conversation with people.”

“Yes,” Sally nodded in agreement, before ducking an imagined punch and following up with two shots to the kidneys. “You can watch a movie, eat some pizza and when you’re too drunk to drive or do anything safely, all you have to do is fall asleep on your own floor. Bloody fantastic.”

The timer stopped, indicating that Sally’s round was done and the two women switched places. Molly’s punches weren’t as powerful as Sally’s, but they were improving, along with her footwork, which pleased both her. Apparently also practising in her kitchen at night was also paying off.

“OK, my turn now,” Sally said as she held the bag and Molly’s round began. “‘Rolling in the Deep’ or ‘Someone Like You’?”

Molly winced in pain -- whether it was from her knuckled grazing the bag or Sally’s question, she wasn’t quite sure. “You wound me,” she panted. “That album was fantastic overall. How can you make me choose between those two?”

“Ah, but you must,” Sally’s eyes had a sadistic twinkle to them.

“Fine,” Molly groaned, then slipped to the side to follow up with a right cross. “Someone Like You.”

Sally huffed a sigh.

“You disagree?” Molly squatted down and began jabbing at the bag. Sally loosened her grip, realizing that Molly’s punches weren’t causing the bag to move much.

“Someone Like You seems so passive to me,” Sally said. “I mean, it’s all, ‘I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” she sighed dramatically. “You’re doing swell and I just had to see you, but don’t worry about me --’” her sighs got more dramatic until it looked like she was melting off of the punching bag. “I’ll be fine.”

Molly burst out laughing, then focused again on the heavy bag. “And Rolling In The Deep isn’t on the other end of that? That song is basically saying she’d burn the house down after a break-up.”

“Damn straight,” Sally grinned, also pleased at the way Molly’s ducking wasn’t her moving backwards, but slipping down to dodge an imaginary fist. “I’m sorry, but when I break up with a man, I don’t want to see him, talk to him or pretend we’re friends. Go away. We’re done. Persona non grata.”

The timer buzzed and both women stopped to take a break.

After drinking her water, Molly giggled. “Don’t you just wish that you could just send them off to some island somewhere, far away? Where there’s no Internet or phone lines so they can’t contact you when they’re drunk off their arse?”

Sally nodded, heaving a deep breath. Her arms burned and sweat was dripping down her face, but this was the most fun that she’d had in awhile and she was also happy with the way Molly had progressed in her technique. She might not have the hardest punch, but Sally was pretty sure that she’d surprise the hell out of someone who had provoked her.

“Maybe where on occasion a shark can come and devour one of them,” Molly continued thoughtfully. “Just to help prevent the island’s resources from being overtaxed.”

Sally’s water came flying out of her mouth as a loud laugh exploded from her. It was a cackle -- a warm, loving, joyous cackle -- there was no other way to describe it. Molly felt a flush of pride as she realized she made someone laugh in genuine humor.

“We could just release some man-eating tigers on the island,” Sally added after she finished wiping her mouth with the bottom of her t-shirt. “Just to make sure everything is in balance.”

Molly giggled. “I like the way you think.”

~*~

It had started because Molly impulsively asked if Sally wanted to go see a film, but Sally said she couldn’t since she was conditioning her hair that night, but she was more than welcome to come and hang out at her flat.

For Molly this was a major step. Going to a friend’s house was a big deal in her mind -- that was their sanctum and home, where power dynamics were different, rules of etiquette changed and you could learn so much about their taste and aesthetics.

In her mind she pictured Sally’s flat as being clean and sparse -- warm, but not cluttered with items. Sally didn’t seem like the type of person to hold much truck with possessions, given her no-nonsense personality.

But it was the opposite. Sally’s flat had numerous pictures of various people on the brightly-coloured walls -- some of which Molly assumed were family, some of members of Scotland Yard and some were of people in tropical locations. Her shelves were crammed with books most of which focused on law and society and community outreach and one shelf had numerous CDs on it. Molly recognized some of the names, noting that Sally’s tastes ranged from reggae to soul and punk. On the coffee table was a chess set, just waiting for another player, which made her curious about how good Sally was at chess.

“I didn’t know you had to do a deep conditioning,” Molly said as she looked through Sally’s CD collection.

“My hair gets really dry and brittle if I don’t and I’ve kept putting it off so I’m now at the point where if I don’t get it done, it will snap off my head,” Sally called out from the bathroom. “And I also use this as an excuse to stay in, surf the web and relax.” She came out with a brightly patterned headscarf on that clashed with her Fulham T-shirt and track suit bottoms. “Sorry I’m all grubby,” she said as she headed to the kitchen to grab a couple bottles of beer, “But this is kind of intensive stuff.”

Molly looked up and accepted the bottle of beer. “No problem,” she said. “I’ve never had to do that at all, so it’s interesting to learn. Do you leave in in overnight?”

“Yup,” Sally said. “I mean I’d love to see a film, but yeah, it wasn’t gonna work tonight. But I’m glad you came over. Company is always welcome.”

Molly sipped the beer. “Yeah, all I have to do is wash and go,” she said. “But I’d love to have curls like yours.”

“It’s a pain -- they frizz so easily,” Sally said. “I mean, even straightening it out takes forever, so I don’t like doing it.”

“Have you ever done that?”

“Once,” Sally snorted. “It lasted about forty-five minutes.”

Molly laughed. “That’s like when I try and get my hair in an updo. It takes a box of bobby pins, a can of mousse and a can of hairspray to keep it up,” she continued to look at the CDs, “I guess that we always want what we can’t have eh?”

“That’s one way of saying it. Do you need anything?”

“I’m fine,” Molly said, before grabbing another CD to examine. “I’m just having fun looking at your music collection. You’ve got some nice stuff.”

A silence settled over the pair as Molly continued to look at Sally’s CD collection. Sally finished her beer and flopped down on the sofa to flip through some magazines. For the first time hanging out at someone’s flat, the silence wasn’t weird or awkward. There was something companionable about it, which made Molly feel relieved. She didn’t feel the need to talk, which was nice because sometimes talking made her more tired.

“You know what’s nice?” Sally said from the sofa.

“Mmmm?” Molly looked up from the Nina Simone CD she was inspecting.

“That this isn’t weird,” Sally looked over at her. “I can’t think of a time lately when I haven’t had an awkward silence with people.”

“I know,” Molly said as she put the CD back and pulled a Police CD out to examine. “I’m just having fun looking at your music collection. You’ve got good taste.”

“Thanks,” Sally said. “You want to borrow anything?”

“I might,” Molly said. “Sometimes at the morgue, if I’m the only one, it’s nice to blast some music.”

“Well what do you like?”

“Mostly poppy stuff really,” Molly said. “I tend to like what’s on the radio, but I’ll admit to a Smiths and Cure phase when I was growing up.”

Sally laughed. “Bit of a goth eh?”

“I don’t think you can work in a morgue without a bit of a goth thing,” Molly said. “I think that I’m just looking for good stuff to listen to to keep my energy up sometimes when I’m pulling a late shift.”

“Ooooh,” Sally said. “I suggest my Nikka Costa CD. She’s got some funky soul and I’ve found it helpful when I’m working on reports late at night. On second thought, how about I create a mix CD for you? Would that be good?”

“Really?” Molly sat next to her on the sofa and grabbed a magazine. “That’s so nice of you. Yeah, if you could give me some recommendations on music for late nights alone at the morgue, that would be fabulous.”

Three days later, Sally passed on a CD to Molly during one of their lunch meetings. Molly couldn’t wait to get back to the office to hear what was chosen. Popping the CD into the player, she waited a moment, then the opening bars of Rob Zombie’s “Living Dead Girl,” blasted her off her chair.

_Not funny Sally!_ Molly grabbed her phone and texted her.

_Oh good :D You started playing the CD._

_If my coworkers hear this._

_But they’re not there. Just listen. Trust me._

Molly gritted her teeth and endured. After the crunchy metal of Zombie’s music faded away, Nikka Costa’s husky vocals filled the room, which resulted in Molly shaking her hips to the music as she worked through reports. Nikki Costa faded out and Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings came in, only to be replaced by Amy Winehouse and Lauryn Hill. By the end of the CD, Molly looked at the stack of reports she had finished and smiled. Pulling out her mobile she texted one word:

_Nice_

Ten minutes later she got a reply:

_I told ya._

~*~

_He’s driving me crazy again. -- SD_

Molly stared at the mobile. While she was absolutely besotted with Sherlock, she understood why Sally wouldn’t like him. Which was funny, because she believe that they’d probably like each other -- if Sherlock wasn’t insulting people all the time and Sally was more forgiving of his blunt speech. Obviously he was in Scotland Yard tormenting her or her boss.

_What’s going on?_

_Lestrade asked him to consult on a case. I swear, I’m going to check out a weapon and shoot him if he continues to insinuate I am sleeping with Anderson._

_Well, to be fair, you did._

_ONE TIME, they were separated and he got back with his wife. It was months ago. She knows about it, it’s awkward and no one brings it up, except for him. Can we send him to the island?_

_Sherlock or Anderson?_

_Both._

Molly chuckled. _You know they’d murder each other in a heartbeat. Then who would you have for forensics?_

_Wanna come and work with me instead?_

_Sorry, I don’t get on with people well. I’m better if they can’t talk._

_You think I get on with people? Besides, you know Lestrade, Sherlock is here often enough that he should be considered part of the office. Think of it as a sitcom. We could go out for lunch all the time._

_We do that anyway._ Molly grinned. _Speaking of which…._

_Sorry, I can’t. No time. He’s running us ragged finding information for his vast computer brain._ Molly could almost see Sally rolling her eyes as she typed out “vast computer brain.” _I really don’t know what you see in him._

_He’s got cute hair, a nice arse, his voice makes me go tingly and his shirts are really, really tight. And he’s just brilliant._

_You know I’ve got cousins with cute hair, deep voices and tight shirts._

_But do they have pert bums?_

_Molly, you’re my friend, but that’s above and beyond my job description as your friend. I am not checking out my cousins’ arses for you._

She grinned. _Spoilsport._

The mobile ceased chiming for a bit and Molly went back to finishing up her report, before it pinged again.

_Good luck Molly_ , the text read _He’s on his way over to you with Lestrade. Also armed with his little blond shadow, so it’s gonna get crowded there._

_I’ll get the coffee brewing then._

_Also, thank you for letting me vent._

_No problem_ , Molly got up and brought the mobile with her. If Sherlock was in a snit, this was going to take awhile, so it was a good idea to have a fresh pot of coffee available. _You free for lunch tomorrow?_

_Let’s see what Mister Fancypants does first :) Maybe you’ll get a good look at his bum today._

Molly blushed, then grinned. _How tight is the clothing?_

_I don’t think the man eats. Three shirt buttons were straining for emancipation. It was disconcerting. You’d think for someone posh, he’d be able to buy clothing that fit._

_Oh it fits_ , Molly bit her lip. _It fits in all the right places._

_Ow. Brain. Enough of that. What’s the opposite of inducing ovulation? That’s what happened. My sex drive just dried up. There is nothing but sand down below. The fanny Sahara._

Molly began laughing as Sherlock burst in with Lestrade and John. True to Sally’s word, the detective was wearing some impossibly tight clothing. While Sally found it weird, Molly just would file away in her “this is when Sherlock was pretty” memory bank.

_He’s here, she quickly tapped out. I’ve got to run. Sorry about breaking your brain._

_No problem. Have fun with the boys :)_

~*~

Sally stared up at the ceiling. She could feel the sweat dripping down into her ears and her lungs burned. She suspected that somewhere in the morning, she had dislocated her elbow and her kneecaps were somewhere else in the gym.  Molly’s face popped up into her field of vision. She was crouched next to Sally with a look of concern on her face.

“Are you all right?” She asked.

“We --” Sally gasped for air. “Are. Never. Doing. Zumba. Again. Ever.”

Molly looked apologetic and chewed on her bottom lip. “Agreed,” she said. “That was a disaster.” She held out her hand and helped Sally up to a sitting position.

Sally slowly sat up. “My ears are still ringing,” she complained. “And I don’t even know what those dance moves were. They were so complicated.”

“I thought you’d be a natural at it since --” Molly started.

“If you say it’s because I’m black, I’m telling Gaz that you need to do mountain climbers for the rest of your life and you’ve suddenly gotten into Cross Fit,” Sally snapped. “He’s been looking to add handstand push-ups to boxing.”

Molly shrank into herself. For a moment, Sally felt bad about snapping at her friend, but only for a moment. After all, it was Molly’s idea that they try Zumba to get more agility in their feet.

“I was going to say you’re a natural because you’re good at boxing,” Molly squeaked. “But I’m sorry -- I also assumed -- and it was wrong.”

“Well,” Sally started stretching her legs. “I think I blew that assumption out of the water.”

Molly smiled. “I can’t believe how you ran into that one girl and then everyone fell down like dominos.”

Sally shook her head. “I don’t think we should come back here,” she said. “But it also serves them right for not having a lot of space in this gym for that.”

“I don’t know about you,” Molly said, “but I couldn’t see a damn thing. Everyone was in the way of the instructor.”

“Yeah,” Sally nodded. “Not a good fit.”

“Not at all.”

The two women headed towards the exit. “So,” Molly said, “What do you think of pole dancing?”

“I think you would need to buy me A LOT of pints before I even entertain that idea.”

~*~

When some people say they had a bad week, it’s usually due to a constant irritation or a lot of stress or a big deadline. When Sally Donovan and Molly Hooper have a bad week, it can be those things. But in this case it was shooting at Hackney that resulted in three teens murdered in a drug deal gone south.

In Molly’s case, she was in charge of the autopsies, which were always difficult on her. Death was part of life, and she had reconciled herself to that, but seeing young people -- teenagers and children -- cut down before they had the chance to grow into adults reminded her of the unfairness of life.

For Sally it was going to visit the parents and question them, as well as let them know that their children had been killed. She hated seeing the walls come up with some parents, while others crumbled sobbing at the news. At times the parents would explode in anger at the officers bearing the news, or the stoicism would build up and a weird veneer of polite civility would enter the room. Not to mention, the entire press were working overtime on the story, which meant that she got to play handler to her boss to prevent him from saying something insensitive and ill-advised. After that one incident in which he told people “not to commit suicides,” Sally found herself watching over her boss more, trying to ensure that he didn’t appear as an arse in public.

In any case, the two women were at a pub, drinking away their woes after their grueling shifts. It was one of those pubs that Sally had frequented before, so the bartender understood the situation and often left them to their own devices. It was natural, the way they gravitated towards the pub together, pulled together by the need to keep company with someone who understood what happened.

A waitress slipped up to the two women, dropped off the pints of ale and two shots of Scotch.

“Alfie said it looked like you needed this,” she said quietly. “Heard about the shooting in Hackney.”

Sally nodded. “Sad news,” she said. “Tell Alfie I said thanks.”

“Yes,” Molly said. “Thank you for the kindness.”

The waitress nodded and left the two in silence. Sally downed her shot and then drank her ale. Mollly sipped her Scotch, winced and then chose the ale instead.

“What a rotten day,” Sally said, breaking the silence.

“I feel awful for those parents,” Molly said, staring at the table, tracing the carvings with her fingers. “I feel awful that you had to tell them. Then they had to come so they could identify the bodies.”

“It’s all rotten isn’t it?” Sally sighed.

Molly nodded, the memory of one set of parents staring down at their son in quiet pain surfacing in her brain. “It’s just sad,” she said. “They hold out hope in some cases -- that the body on the table isn’t their loved one, that it might be a mistake --”

“And it’s not” Sally finished off. “You gonna drink that?” she said, pointing to the Scotch.

Molly shook her head. “It’s all yours,” she said.

Sally took it and downed the drink, then took a big swallow of her ale. The morose silence enveloped the two women. The waitress came by, collected the empty glasses and dropped off two pints of ale.

Molly and Sally drank their drinks without words. It was about three pints in that Molly broke the silence.

“Do you ever wonder,” She slurred slightly. “Do you ever wonder if there’s a reason for this? Why do we keep going on with our jobs? I could’ve been a veterinarian. I like cats. Why this?”

Sally smiled grimly “I don’t know,” she said. “But we do. Got no choice sometimes but to keep going on.”

Molly nodded. “Besides, if we didn’t who would?”

“Exactly.”


	4. Christmas

 

“You’re telling me John invited you to their place for Christmas?” Sally raised an eyebrow incredulously. She didn’t doubt John’s sincerity -- over the past few months, Molly had become one of the few people John and Sherlock could call a friend (not that Sherlock would ever admit it). Getting together made sense. What Sally was more disbelieving of was the fact that Sherlock agreed to it. “Does Sherlock know about this?”

Molly took a bite of her sandwich and shrugged. ‘I don’t know,” she said. “I’d assume so because that’s not something that you’d hide from him. I mean he is Sherlock Holmes.”

“So are you going?”

Molly looked as if Sally had grown another head. “Of course,” she said. “Mum’s gone to Canada to visit my sister’s family so it’s just me.”

“You know my mum’s been asking about you,” Sally said, then stuffed another forkful of greens in her mouth.

“Are you jealous?” Molly’s lips were pursed in a mischievous grin.

Sally snorted. “No. You have fun with those two. I’m going to be happy watching the Doctor Who Christmas special with family and then playing video games,” she said. “But you’re always welcome at my parents’ -- Mum’s not getting subtle about meeting you.”

“You talk about me with your mother?” Molly looked surprised. “I mean, I do talk about you with my mum -- I just didn’t think you would.”

Sally laughed. “Mum’s direct,” she said. “I mentioned you once in passing and now she’s got to know everything about you. It’s rather embarrassing at times.”

Molly nodded, oddly flattered that Sally’s mum would take an interest in her well-being. “So,” she began. “I was going to get everyone presents --”

“Don’t ask me what those two like,” Sally said.

Molly shook her head. “No, I was thinking about telling Sherlock plainly how I felt.”

Sally sharply inhaled, then began coughing as a piece of lettuce went down the wrong pipe. Molly’s eyes widened in panic as she thrust a glass of water in Sally’s hand. To be honest, Sally was thankful she nearly choked because it bought her time to think of something tactful. In her head she saw all the possible scenarios and none of them ended well.

“Do you think he already knows how you feel and is avoiding saying something?” Sally finally said after sipping her water and clearing her throat.

“I don’t know,” Molly said quietly, her hands falling to her lap as she began wringing her napkin. “Why? Do you think he knows and is being polite and not wanting to tell me no?”

“You know, I don’t know,” Sally said slowly. “It’s hard to tell with him -- he’s so perceptive at times, but at the same time he doesn’t know about the solar system.”

“Well,” Molly interjected, “It’s a matter of remembering certain details and ranking them in importance, you know that.”

Sally nodded, “But I guess my overall point is that he might not know. You don’t know where you stand with him until you tell him how you feel,” she sighed. “It’s just that I worry that he’s going to be horrid about it. I’m really, really trying not to hurt your feelings, but I just worry about him --”

“You think he’s going to be a prat.”

“I know he’s going to be a prat,” Sally noted the flash of pain in Molly’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Molly said. “I’m scared to tell him too, but I hate not knowing for sure more. He flirts sometimes, then he’s a wanker, he’s sweet another moment, then he snubs me the next. I’m so confused.”

“Sounds like he’s taken dating advice from a ten year old boy. I really wonder if he’s worth your time.”

“I think he would be,” Molly said. “I can’t explain why, but I do.”

Sally shrugged -- she would never understand what Molly saw in him, but she refused to judge her friend’s taste. The fact that she saw goodness in people was one of the most appealing things about Molly in Sally’s eyes, but sometimes -- like now -- she wondered if that optimism was going to end up biting Molly in the arse.

“OK then,” Sally said. “Yeah, tell him how you feel. Put the ball in his court and see what he does it with.”

Molly flushed. “Oh my God,” she gulped, “Now I’m scared that it’s going to be awful.”

“Do it. Brave people often do things before they’re ready to,” Sally smiled. “Just go for it and at least you’ll know where you stand with him.”

Molly nodded. “I’ll do it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

~*~

_Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..._

Molly did her dammedest to hold her head up high as Sherlock grabbed the mobile and headed to his bedroom. Her face burned -- whether it was from Sherlock’s kiss or humiliation, she wasn’t sure.

“I have to get going,” she lied, swallowing back the tears that threatened to spill. “I just wanted to pop over and drop off presents.”

Averting their eyes and demurring their protests that she should stay just a little bit longer, Molly pulled her coat on and headed out the door. She could feel the pitying looks and the whispers of _Poor girl_ follow her down the stairs and out the door. It wasn’t until she was down the street that the tears she was holding back spilled down her cheeks as she pulled out her mobile and began texting the only person she could think of asking for help.

~*~

Sally’s family had just finished watching the Doctor Who Christmas special and the kids were about to set up Rock Band when Sally’s mobile beeped.

_Are you free? I need to be with a friend -- MH_

_Sure. Come on over. I’m at my parents’ but you’re still welcome._

_Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother._

_It’s no trouble at all. Just come on over._ Sally texted over the directions and began chewing on her lip, knowing exactly what happened. And it wasn’t the best case scenario.

_Thanks. I really need a distraction._

About an hour later, the doorbell rang and Sally opened the door. Molly stood on the stoop, face ruddy and a brittle smile on her lips. She was wearing jeans and a cheerful Christmas jumper. Sally swept her up into a big hug.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” Molly whispered. “I need to be distracted.”

“You’ve come to the right place then,” Sally replied, before Sally’s mum appeared in the doorway.

“Is this Molly?” the voice boomed with a lilting Jamaican accent, and Molly felt  herself ripped out of Sally’s arms as an older black woman wrapped her arms around her. “We finally get to meet! Merry Christmas dear!”

“Molly, my mum, Jalissa Donovan,” Sally muttered, with a wry smile on her face. “Mum, Molly.”

“So where’s your mum?” Mrs. Donovan asked as she swept Molly into the house, past a mob of children slaughtering a song in Rock Band and into the kitchen where she shoved a group of people away from the counter to make room for the two of them, after which  tall greying man thrust a hot toddy in Molly’s hands.

“It’ll warm you up,” he said kindly. “You look chilled to the bone.”

Molly took a drink -- it was warm and strong, which was exactly what she needed. “Thank you --”

“Gareth,” they shook hands. “Gareth Donovan, I’m Sally’s father.”

Molly nodded. “Thank you Mr. Donovan.” He had a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that seemed to say _Welcome to the lions’ den my dear. Enjoy your stay._

The entire house was overflowing with people, Molly noticed after she had a moment to get her bearings. One group was playing Rock Band. One corner had been taken over by a large group of people playing dominos. A buffet filled with Caribbean specialities and some traditional English dishes took up one wall in the kitchen and there were people crowded around the food and kitchen table. This was entirely different than the quiet Christmases she was used to, but after Baker Street, it was definitely a relief.

“So where’s your mum?” Mrs. Donovan asked again, yanking Molly back to the moment.

“Toronto,” Molly stammered, overwhelmed and cowed by the open intensity of Sally’s mum’s gaze. “She’s spending Christmas with my sister and her family there.”

“You’ve got family in Toronto? Why didn’t you go there for Christmas?” Sally looked surprised, elbowing her way into the space. _Oh thank God she’s here_ Molly thought gratefully. “I know your mum was abroad, but --”

Molly shrugged. “I didn’t have enough holiday time,” she explained. “And normally Holly --”

“Holly and Molly?” Sally blinked. “Did your parents lose a bet?”

Sally’s parents looked aghast at their daughter’s question, but Molly burst out laughing.

“And Holly Hooper --” Sally continued.

“Sally,” her mother growled.

Molly laughed. “It’s fine,” she said. “And she’s not Hooper anymore -- it’s Holly Dansey now. Anyway, Holly can’t come over every year and this year the family budget was tight, so Mum said she’d go to them  year. I figured it would be fine because otherwise it’d just be me and her and she’d had fun. It’s her first Christmas alone since Dad died, so Hols and I agreed that she should go.”

Molly looked at Mrs. Donovan. “Thank you for inviting me by the way.”

“Oh pish,” she waved a hand. “We’ve got plenty of food to go around. Besides, any friend of Sally’s is a friend of ours.”

“Mum --” Sally began, embarrassed.

It was interesting, Molly observed, as the conversation began to flow. Sally could be taken as a spitting image of her mother, with the freckles and curly brown hair and light brown skin, but there was definitely some of her father in her. Mainly around the build -- which was more lithe and taller in comparison to her mother, who was short and compactly built.

“We met in Uni,” her father said after Molly asked about Sally’s parents. “We were in the physics lab together and I was just drawn to her -- she’s just a firecracker.”

“The worst part is that I couldn’t understand a damn word his said with his accent.” Mrs. Donovan joked.

“And I couldn’t understand her with her accent --” he continued, settling into a routine that they had obviously performed for people.

“And by the time we finally understood each other, we were married for two years,” Mrs. Donovan laughed. “Lucky for him, by that time I was completely unable to say no to him.”

“And I couldn’t say no to her,” he chuckled. “Not that she’d let me anyway.” Mr. Donovan winced as his wife lightly punched him in the arm.

From there Molly listened as they told the whole story of their family life. Getting married in University. Dealing with their parents’ reactions ( _“Oh neither side took it well, but we were -- actually still -- crazy in love, so they got over it. And it’s amazing how a baby can mend fences.”_ ), settling in London when he took an engineering job and she found work as a secondary school teacher (“ _Really, she’s brilliant. Could teach at a public school like Eton, but she just doesn’t like to.” “They have plenty of good teachers. My school needs more.”_ ) and raising Sally ( _“We had tried so hard. Took nine years to have Sally and by then, we were so exhausted that one was all we could do. Of course her being a little hellraiser sucked all the energy out of us.”_ ).

Somewhere during the conversation, the four of them managed to find space around the kitchen table to talk. It was fascinating for Molly and definitely embarrassing for Sally, judging by how pink her cheeks got.

“-- and then there was the time I got a call from her school. Apparently someone had gotten into a fight with one of her schoolmates.”

“She was picking on me all year Mum,” Sally groaned.

“I knew that” Mrs. Donovan said with a serene smile. “When her teacher told me what happened, my response was ‘I know Sally and that girl deserved it. She would never do that normally.’”

Molly looked over at Sally. “Why am I not surprised about this?” she said.

“She bloody deserved it,” Sally laughed. “She was accusing me of stealing her boyfriend was was a load of rubbish anyways because he was ugly and stupid. Then she said she’d kick my arse and that’s when I went to --”

“I can’t believe you went to Uncle Charlie and had him teach you boxing on the weekends,” Mrs. Donovan’s laugh continued.

“But that’s our girl,” Mr. Donovan rubbed Sally’s shoulders affectionately. “Never one to do something half-arsed. If she was going to fight that girl, she was going to make sure that girl didn’t get up again.”

Molly looked over at Sally shocked. “You didn’t --” she said, picturing broken bones, concussions and worse.

“I just broke her nose,” Sally said innocently. “One good pop was all that was needed. And she never bothered me again.”

“No because we had to transfer you to my school,” Mrs. Donovan replied. “You’re just lucky I could swing that.”

“Yeah,” Sally snorted. “Nothing like having all the teachers in the school know who you are and what you’re doing to get you to straighten up and fly right.”

Even though Molly asked her not to, Sally wanted to ask what exactly happened. But there was no privacy to do so. If Molly wasn’t being chatted up by a cousin or relative, she was participating in a sing-along to Lilly Allen in Rock Band. It was almost like she was avoiding what happened.

“Leave her be,” Mrs. Donovan told her daughter.

“I’m leaving it,” Sally replied. “And how do you know?”

“Eye make-up was a little smudged and runny. Not to mention her face is all ruddy.”

“It could be the cold.”

“You also told me she was spending Christmas with friends, so what would happen that made her come here? She’s also very hellbent on not discussing what happened earlier. Dodged two question starts from you.”

“God,” Sally groaned. “Everyone’s a consulting detective these days.”

“Nope,” Mrs. Donovan sipped her toddy. “Just a mother.”

Molly sidled over to them. “Mrs. Donovan,” she said brightly, “I’ve had so much fun, but I’ve just gotten a call from work. I’ve got to go in. Body arrived and I offered to be on call.”

“Of course,” Sally’s mum hugged Molly, resulting in a little squeak of surprise from her. Sally smirked. “Just give me ten minutes and I’ll get you a plate of leftovers.”

“You don’t need to --”

“I insist. I can’t eat all of this.”

Sally sighed. “She’s got a mum of her own,” she interrupted. “How about this -- I’ll see Molly for Boxing Day and then I’ll get the leftovers to her all right?”

Mrs. Donovan released Molly, who was now slightly red in the face. “It’s a deal,” she said.

“I can’t --” Molly began.

“Oh Molly,” Sally said, as she led her to the door. “Rule one of the Donovan family -- You don’t say no to my mother. It just isn’t done.”

Molly smiled. “Thank you,” she said, hugging Sally. “I really do appreciate this.”

“I know,” Sally said. “We’ll talk later.”

~*~

Boxing Day never happened, but instead of spending New Year’s Eve alone, both Sally and Molly decided to avoid the crowds and stay in at Molly’s to celebrate the best way they knew how -- with lots of wine, snacks and catching up on the telly.

Somehow Molly had even convinced Sally that it was a good idea to make it a slumber party, so Sally had arrived in her sensible dark blue pyjamas. True to her word, Sally also brought leftovers from Christmas, as well as some brownies her mother made -- “She insisted,” Sally groused. “Said you looked like the type of woman who appreciate chocolate.”

Molly laughed at the containers. “Your mom is one perceptive woman,” she said, before heading into her bedroom to get her pyjamas on. After putting some of the containers in the refrigerator, Sally decided to look around and see what kind of DVDs Molly had.

“I didn’t know you had Parks and Recreation!” Sally squealed when she spotted some familiar faces on a case.

“I do!” Molly shouted back from the bathroom. “You know the show? No one else I know has seen this show.”

“Yeah,” Sally said as she pulled the DVDs out and looked at them. “I’ve been watching online. You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to see this show. I think I might have to arrest myself.”

A peal of laughter burst out of the bedroom.

“How on earth did you get the DVDs?”

“My brother in law works in IT so he rigged up the system,” Molly called back. “I told Holly that he had to do that because she got me hooked on the show when I visited her a year and a half ago, so when they came to visit, he set it up for me and she gave me the DVDs. Don’t even ask me what he did -- it’s like some dark magic I don’t understand.”

Sally chuckled as she looked at the DVDs. “Isn’t it awesome --” Sally could feel her enthusiasm for the show bubble up and take over the verbal portion of her brain. “I mean, you get past the first season --”

“And it just takes off,” Molly said, exiting her bedroom. She was wearing pink pyjamas with cats reading books printed all over them. “You wanna watch it?”

“Is Donna Meagle the best person in the world?” Sally grinned.

Halfway through the fourth season, Sally realized something. The two women were sprawled on Molly’s sofa, the remains of the brownies, some crisps and a bottle of wine littering the coffee table. Toby -- a great big ginger tom -- had plunked himself on Sally’s lap, purring at the head skritches he was receiving. It was late and odds were good she’d end up passed out on Molly’s couch, but honestly, Sally didn’t care. This was the most fun she had in awhile.

“Did you ever notice that Sherlock’s hair is like Jean-Ralphio’s?” she asked slowly, as they watched the episode about the end of the world and Tom Haverford and Jean-Ralphio kicked off a drumline performance.

Molly looked over at her friend with a manic gleam in her eye and started laughing. “HE DOES!” she said, cackling. “And Sherlock is --”

“The wooooooorrrrrsssstt!” Sally began singing.

For about ten solid minutes, the sofa rocked as the two women cackled and snorted in laughter. Toby leaped off of Sally’s lap, shook himself in what was apparent annoyance at being disturbed and sauntered into the kitchen. “Of course John would be Tom Haverford,” Molly wheezed. “Have you seen how he tries to pick up women?”

“Awful at it?”

“Well Sherlock is cockblocking him,” Molly giggled.

“But is John cockblocking you?” Sally asked.

Molly’s giggles faded and she stared into her wine glass as the DVD menu came onscreen. “I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, I’ve given him clues that I love him, but I don’t know if he’s ignoring them or that clueless.”

Sally nodded. Feeling the question on her tongue, she finally released it. “What happened during the party? I mean, you gave Sherlock the present and everything right? That wasn’t subtle at all.”

Molly poured another glass of wine, emptying the bottle into it. Taking a big gulp, she leaned back, her head falling back and her eyes on the ceiling. “Oh God,” she groaned. “That was a disaster. I came in, he insulted me the whole time, saying that I had love on the brain, deduced the present, said my breasts and mouth were too small and then he opened the card and realized --”

“That it was for him,” Sally got hot in her stomach and a rage started bubbling. “That fucking arse. What happened?”

Tears pricked Molly’s eyes and she looked over at Sally, “Well, I asked him why he always had to say such horrible things to me and he finally apologized,” she smiled sadly. “Then his mobile went off with like this breathy moan --” Molly imitated it. “And he left to make a phone call. I was so embarrassed and everyone was looking at me like they pitied me, so I had to get out of there. And that’s when I texted you.”

Sally winced. This was horrifically awkward and heartbreaking at the same time.

“Oh it gets better,” Molly added. “You know that call? Well it was a female corpse and guess who identified the body?”

Sally groaned.

“Yup. And some posh git with him that was rather beaky and pinched,” Molly said. “Even though her face was bashed up, he was able to recognize her by her--” there was a hiccup, as Molly gestured to her groin.

“Not her face,” Sally concluded.

Tears started to spill down her face. “All this time I knew I didn’t have a chance with him, but I figured it was because of his passion for his work, not that he didn’t want me. I was so foolish,” Molly sighed, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve. “Why the hell did I think that he’d want me? I mean, look at me -- I’m a thirtysomething woman whose only stable relationship is with her cat.”

Sally shook her head. “Hey, what about me?” she joked.

“And you,” Molly smiled. “At least there’s you.”

Sally wandered into the kitchen and pulled out the bottle of rum and began pouring it into her wineglass. She took a sip, enjoying the burn before she began speaking.

“Fuck Sherlock,” she said slowly. “Well, not in the way you want. Fuck him sideways with a splintery cricket bat. He’s a fucking wanker who doesn’t love anyone but his stupid brain and his stupid intelligence and everyone else is meaningless. You know how meaningless he is? He’s missing out on you. You’re wonderful, fantastic, beautiful, kind and sweet. You’re like a beautiful --” Sally swigged her drink, “You’re a beautiful tropical fish.”

Molly laughed and finished her wine. Sally filled her glass with some rum. “And I still feel confused,” she sighed after taking a long drink. “I mean, it was clear he knew what he said was insulting and he knew he hurt me and he apologized --”

“Doesn’t mean he loves you back,” Sally said. “He just apologized because he hurt you. And hurting you is like punching a kitten.”

“But if he was an emotionless robot --”

“He might not be, but that doesn’t mean he loves you. Or is worthy of you. ‘Sides, your breasts are nice,” Sally hiccuped. “Not too big, so you’re not spilling out of tops, a good size for cute bras and if you want to go braless, you can. I’d wager also you don’t worry about your boobs hitting you in the face while doing jumping jacks. That’s something many women would envy.”

Molly laughed. “Why thank you. I should get that printed on business cards. ‘Dr.Molly Hooper -- has a fantastic set of tits.’”

“I would,” Sally slurred. “Only a pig would mention your looks.”

“All men are aren’t they?” Molly snorted as she slid down the sofa, crawled over to the tv stand, put another DVD in the player -- Sally  noticed that it took her a few tries -- and started it up again. Instead of returning to the couch, Molly slumped up against it, sipping the rum.

“Even self-proclaimed geniuses,” Sally said as the bouncy march from Parks and Recreation started up again, before she found herself melting into the couch with the thought that if she could, she would gleefully murder Sherlock Holmes for hurting her friend.

The less said about the hangover the next morning, the better.

“Well, I think we fulfilled a milestone,” Molly remarked as she helped Sally into a sitting position, leaning against the bathroom door.

“Ugh,” Sally groaned, accepting the glass of water from Molly. “Yeah,” she croaked. Her mouth felt like sandpaper and her head was pounding to the beat of Mouserat’s Sex Hair. “Both of us held each other’s hair while we were sick.”

Molly giggled, before sinking down next to her, her head flopping on Sally’s shoulder. “The rum was probably a bad idea,” she smiled.

“I regret nothing,” Sally tipped her head back. Why was it so bright in this room? And who put it on the spin cycle? she thought. She closed her eyes, seeking comfort. “I only regret that I can’t punch Sherlock in the mouth next time I see him for insulting my friend’s honor.”

She could feel Molly shake next to her in silent laughter. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she said, wrapping an arm around Sally’s shoulders. “Thank you for being here. It means a lot to me.”

“It’s no problem,” Sally croaked. “You’re my best friend, of course I’d do that for you.”

“Really?” Molly sounded surprised.

“Yeah. Hell, if you got into a fight with Adrian Lester, I’d back you up in a heartbeat.”

“You mean the guy who plays Mickey Bricks on Hustle?”

“Mmmm, yeah,” Sally’s eyes closed as she remembered seeing him in a play. That was a beautiful sight that still lingered with her.

“Seriously? Why the hell would I do that? He seems like a lovely sort of guy.”

Sally snorted, “Yeah. That’s how much I love you. I’m willing to fight him, and I’d climb him like a tree if I could.”

“Wow,” she laughed. “I love you too. For the record, I know of several good ways to dispose of bodies if you need it. No questions asked.”

Sally chuckled, then opened her eyes.

“There’d be no judgment either,” Molly continued. “Just tell me, ‘Molly, we need to dump this body,’ and I’ll get everything prepared. No one would ever know. I mean, you could tell me, but it’d probably end with me going, ‘Yeah. They deserved it.’”

“That’s good to know,” Sally smiled. “Hopefully neither of us will have to employ either thing.” Her stomach lurched. “Molly?”

Molly grabbed her hair and pulled her over to the toilet. “I got you.”


	5. Reichenbach

  
The merry holidays faded into the unrelenting bleakness of winter, after which, in time, spring slouched its way into London. Sally took care of Toby when Molly went to visit her sister in Canada. Molly helped Sally plan a hen’s night out for when a cousin of hers got married (“I can’t believe that you can find a stripper Mr. Darcy.”). The two women even took a trip to Blackpool for some seaside relaxation and an attempt at gambling that ended with them not richer, but at least wiser -- “Next time we’re going big,” Sally remarked. “Las Vegas, something with more swagger and less apology -- something American.” Between the big events there were meals, films, texts, e-mails and phone calls that reinforced their friendship. There was even discussion about possibly pooling resources together to get a nicer flat.

During this time Sherlock’s star was on the rise, much to the amusement of both Sally and Molly. Molly was happy to see Sherlock get recognition for his brilliance and Sally had a good case of schadenfreude watching Sherlock negotiate the trappings of fame with as much ease as Toby trying to wander around a full bathtub.

Neither of them were surprised by the attention -- factoring out her crush, Molly thought it was about time that intelligence was recognized in the media, instead of flamboyant personalities. Sally teased that it was because of Sherlock’s outrageous personality mixed with his disinterest to court the press -- “it’s like catnip for them,” she observed.

Maybe it was Molly’s influence, or John softening some of the harder edges, but Sally’s attitude towards Sherlock changed from “bristling contempt” to “mild annoyance.” She agreed he was smart and a useful tool to have around, but that was all that she was willing to concede, given he still was a condescending prat at times. For Molly that was a significant improvement from, “that fucking fuckface.”

So life puttered along in its own way in moments of sips of tea, text messages, e-mails, laughter, complaints about bad dates and boxing classes. Years later, Sally would remark that she wasn’t surprised it would all go to hell that spring.

“It was going so nicely,” she would comment. “And then life had to shit on us.”

Molly would laugh that line, “It is what it is,” she’d say, an impish smile on her face. “Things were getting too peaceful weren’t they?”

~*~

It had started with Sherlock taking a walk off of the roof of St. Bart’s after escaping arrest from the Yard. Sally had spent approximately eighteen hours working with other officers to try and find the consulting detective, only to find out that he had leaped off of the roof of the hospital, leaving a messy corpse of a certain Richard Brook on the roof and another messier corpse on the ground.

There was no way around it. This was one of the worst days of Sally’s life. Right up in the top five shittiest days. Despite what a hysterical John accused when she arrived at the scene -- “I hope you’re happy! He’s the body that he put there!” -- she wasn’t pleased. She didn’t want him dead and the prat had to go and muck everything up in the most theatrical fashion possible. He was supposed to be brought in for questioning -- suicide for accusations of fraud seemed a bit dramatic and cowardly in her mind.

Sally shoved the ball of rage she had for Sherlock into the back corner of her mind and put on her best officer face to get the job done. This was another incident that needed to be reported and taken care of. Interference with the press had to be taken care of -- Lestrade was in no state to talk to reporters at the moment -- and paperwork needed to be completed, which she dug into with gusto, forcing her mind into auto-pilot as she wrote down the reports.

 _That fucking asshole_ , she thought as she got permission to go home and get some rest. Of course he’d only think of himself in this time and not worry about those who care about him.

Instead of heading home, Sally grabbed yet another cup of coffee -- she suspected by the end of the day she had finished at least two pots of coffee -- and headed over to Molly’s flat. Molly hadn’t answered her texts at all and the rage Sally felt towards Sherlock was now being replaced by worry as she banged on the door to Molly’s flat.

“Molly,” Sally called as she knocked on the door. “It’s me, Sall.”

There was no answer.

 _Shit_ , Sally thought as an image of Molly doing something stupid like drinking herself into a coma floated in her head. She pulled out the spare key that Molly had given her, unlocked the door and opened it. Immediately she noticed that there were two pairs of shoes -- one pair belonging to Molly and the other pair belonging to a man.

Sally blinked. Black loafers, polished and of a large foot size. Maybe Molly had John over to commiserate over the death of Sherlock, but as far as Sally could remember, John wasn’t the type to wear black loafers.

“Sally!” Molly came bouncing out of the bathroom. “Hey!” there was a false cheeriness to her voice.

“I’m sorry --” Sally could feel the words falling out of her mouth like rocks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that you had a visitor.”

“How did you?”

“The shoes.”

“Excellent, but basic, observation,” a familiar voice echoed from the hall. “You actually aren’t that terrible.”

She could feel her mouth open to scream as she saw that familiar lanky frame turn the corner. Sherlock was walking stiffly and his hair was damp, but he was more alive than what she had seen earlier. He was wearing Molly's pink bathrobe -- sleeves ending at about his elbows that also left his calves bare -- which would've made Sally laugh under other circumstances. Instead, she froze, a squeak bubbling forth.

Before any words could come out of her mouth, Molly leaped over the coffee table, knocking over a glass of water and scattering books all over the floor, before covering her mouth with her hands.

“Sally,” Molly’s eyes were wide and panicked. “I’m just going to say one word: _Lester_.”

Sally began taking deep breaths as she comprehended what Molly had said. She huffed a sigh.

“Are you going to be calm?” Molly asked.

Sally nodded.

She removed her hand from Sally’s mouth.

“You had to go and invoke that didn’t you?” Sally glared at Molly. “Do you realize what kind of trouble you are in now?”

“Which is why I suspect she’s invoking that name,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Shut up,” Sally snapped, before turning her attention back onto Molly. “We need to talk. Now. And not with him around.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked. “I can already tell which way this conversation will go.”

“Which is why I don’t want you here!” Sally spat. “This is between Molly and me. Not you.”

Molly sighed and ruffled her hair. “OK. Sherlock, stay here. Sally and I are going up on the roof to talk. We will be back in a bit. Do not experiment on Toby.”

Sally felt the hairs on her neck bristling as the two women headed upstairs in grim silence. She could feel her hands start to shake thanks to a combination of rage, fear and the urge to throttle Molly. Once on the roof and the door closed, Sally turned around and stepped nose-to-nose with her friend.

“You have two minutes to convince me why I shouldn’t call my superiors and let them know why you have a fugitive in your flat,” Sally folded her arms. “Go.”

“Mercury poisoning,” Molly began. “Those children were ingesting mercury in the sweets and a high enough dosage will create a sense of fearfulness and dementia. They were already kidnapped and I wouldn’t be surprised if the people behind the kidnapping looked similar to Sherlock and John. They’re unreliable witnesses Sally.”

“If that’s true, then he should just turn himself in and let the justice system do its work,” Sally countered. “Also, that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t been masterminding this whole thing. His deductions are that uncanny. It’s not right.”

“But wouldn’t you have come to those same conclusions yourself?” Molly replied. “I mean, you said so yourself that the frightening thing about him is that he was just that fast.”

“He was called in by Lestrade,” Sally said. “He could cherry pick the crimes he consulted on and ensured that he took what he had orchestrated.”

“What about the clients in John’s blog -- Scotland Yard never took those cases? The scope is simply too large,” Molly countered. “Also he was being blackmailed -- people were going to die if he didn’t jump at that moment.”

“That sounds like a load of bollocks to me,” Sally swung her arms around, trying to contain the turmoil of emotions swirling in her. “It doesn’t matter. I think he’s guilty, he manipulated you with his usual smarmy charm and he needs to be brought in,” she started to pull out her mobile, but Molly’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

“I believe he’s innocent,” Molly said firmly. “Please do this for me? If you make that call, you know I’m damned too -- I’m going to lose my license over this. I am going to go to jail for this. I will be ruined.”

Sally felt her throat close up and a wave of nausea swept over her. Even if she said that Sherlock held Molly hostage, she knew that Molly say she aided Sherlock willingly and without question. Because Molly was just that honest and true. Damn her.

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” Sally finally spat out. “You’re asking me to break my oath. There’s a warrant out for him.”

“There isn’t anymore,” Molly shook her head and wiped tears from her eyes. “He’s dead. They all think he’s dead. It’s just an omission of the truth. Don’t say anything -- it’s like when you see your mom going over the speed limit in her car.”

“Speeding is one thing,” Sally said, “Faking your death is another --”

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,” Molly choked out a laugh.

Despite her anger, Sally couldn’t help but join in the laugh at the shitty situation she was caught in. “Get him out of here in twelve hours,” she said. “People are already talking about interviewing you tomorrow morning -- he needs to be gone. After that, I can’t help you. I won’t say anything, but I can only do so much.”

Molly nodded. “He will be,” she hugged Sally. “I promise. Thank you so much.”

“You owe me so much.”

“I know.”

“I’m not talking like holding my hair while I’m sick all over your bathroom, owe me.”

“I know,” Molly pulled back and wiped the tears from her face and Sally’s face. _When did I start crying?_ Sally wondered for a moment.

“Just so you know, I’m thinking about murdering him and making you dispose of his body.”

A twisted laugh burst out of Molly. “I know.”

“Tell me one thing though,” Sally said. “Are you doing this in hopes that he’ll love you? That he’ll be your Mr. Darcy or something? Are you pulling a nice guy with him?”

“I’d be lying if there wasn’t part of me that hopes he will,” Molly admitted. “But in reality? No. He was in a bad place -- I mean, he looked so scared and sad and he never looks like that so you know it was awful and --”

“You had to help,” Sally finished. “Damn you and your kind nature.”

Molly nodded and began weeping as the weight of the situation finally hit her. Sally wrapped her arms around her friend and pulled her in for a tight hug.

“Oh. My. God,” Molly sobbed into Sally’s chest. “What if I’m wrong? What if I lose my job? What if I end up in jail?”

“Then you’ll be my Missus,” Sally said calmly. “Because you know I’ll be in jail for aiding you.”

A wild laugh exploded out of Molly. After a few hiccuping sobs, Molly stopped crying.

“Will you be OK?” Sally pulled away and wiped Molly’s tears with her sleeve.

“I will be,” Molly said. “We have no choice now.”

Sally shook her head and grabbed Molly’s hand to reassure her. “Nope. Let’s do this.”

The two women headed downstairs and Molly walked Sally out to the entrance of her flat. “I’ll call you,” Molly said, after hugging Sally.

“You be careful,” Sally said. “I’ll see you later.”

After watching Molly head upstairs, Sally turned and started walking down the street, looking for a cab. Before she could raise her arm to hail one, a sleek black car pulled up and two large men in suits came out and flanked her.

“Ms. Donovan?”

Sally eyed them both up and down. “Who wants to know?” she said, hoping that her voice wasn’t shaking. A quick glance told her they were experienced fighters, judging by their stance, one was armed and they both were in the perfect proximity to take her down should she try to resist.

“Just get in the car,” Thug One said as Thug Two opened the car door.

 _Molly Hooper, if I get out of this alive, you owe me a long vacation somewhere warm and sunny and first rights to punching Sherlock Holmes, fuckface, in the bollocks,_ Sally thought as she slid into the car and the men sandwiched her in the seat before the car pulled away from the curb.

~*~

“She thinks you’re doing this to curry favor with me,” Sherlock’s voice resonated through the room after Molly closed the door. He had taken the time to change into his trousers and put a shirt on, probably while they were up on the roof talking, Molly noted.

Molly nodded.

“Are you?” he approached her, looming over her.

“No,” Molly said, holding back the _I did hope this would help though_ that was running through her head and hoped against hope that he couldn’t read her mind.

Sherlock dipped his head to her level, his lips ghosting over hers. “Because if you require it, I would be willing to show my gratitude.”

 _Yes_ \-- it would be so easy to say yes, she thought as his body heat enveloped her or just stand on her tip toes and span that tiny, tiny gap, but Molly ducked under him and stepped away. “No,” she said, amazed that the word came out of her mouth, despite how her nerves and hormones were screaming for her to cash in this chip.

He arched an eyebrow as she began babbling. Maybe it was a defensive reflex, but she picked up Toby and cradled the cat in her arms, who sensed her agitation and began twisting his body to leap out of her arms.

“I can’t,” she said, grip tightening on her cat. “I mean, I’d love to -- I suspect it’d be amazing and you’re probably built like an Adonis and in my head it’d be so good and I’ve dreamed about it for so long and you’re probably a fantastic kisser with that mouth --” she squeaked in embarrassment and surprise as Toby flailed and used his back legs to launch himself off of her chest and onto the ground where he landed with a dull thud before skittering off to the bedroom. “But I never thought it would happen like this. Never like this. Not as a payment for a debt. Not because you feel obligated. Talk to me later -- right now I’m more worried about Sally than getting a leg over on you.”

He nodded. For some reason, Molly felt like she passed some test that she didn’t even know existed.

“Do you believe Sally will go to her superiors?” he asked.

Molly flopped down on the sofa and closed her eyes to think. There was the chance that she would, Molly realized. There was always that chance. And it was silly wasn’t it? Relying on one word to ensure someone would do as you requested? Who does that anyways? Only teenage girls in teen movies about friendship. Grown adults had other things to worry about than friendship. Sally was putting her job on the line for Molly.

But the second thought Molly had was, _Sally wouldn’t. She is your friend and she’d never let you down._ She felt Sherlock settle next to her on the sofa. “No,” she said, finally opening her eyes. “She won’t.”

“You don’t know her like I do,” Sherlock snorted.

“Nor you. Besides you can’t control that now -- it’s just another variable to factor in. Worry about the next ten minutes and what you’re going to do from there,” Molly felt the weight of the world and what she had done crash on her shoulders. As of that moment, going to bed seemed like a brilliant plan. Maybe this was all a dream and she’d wake up and it’d be a perfectly ordinary day with no faux-suicides or worried that she was going to be ruined.

“She’s an officer of the law and she must uphold it. I’m being investigated for fraud and also the fact that I’m alive, despite my spectacular leap is enough for her to call her superiors,” if Molly didn’t know better, it sounded like Sherlock was whining.

Molly shook her head. “I know because she is my best friend and I know her. She told me she wouldn’t tell and I believe her.”

“Why would she help me?”

“She’s not helping you,” Molly replied. “She’s helping me. I asked her for a favor and she’ll do it. And I’ll owe her later. But that’s what friends do for each other.”

The mobile dinged and Sherlock stared at it. “We will see,” he said, his face grim. “She’s just been picked up by Mycroft.”

~*~

Sally knew there wasn’t any point in attempting to invoke the law to earn her freedom. There was something about the room and the man sitting across from her that made her realize that whatever was going on, it was beyond the reach of the law.

She wasn’t even sure where she was. The windows to the car were tinted and the two men were beefy enough to block her line of sight out of them, even if she tried to sneak a glance. They had gone into an underground garage and then it was upstairs into a nondescript office and into an interrogation room.

Apparently her two escorts had enough manners to offer her a cup of cold, watery tea that tasted like it had been brewed through someone’s socks, before a rather pinched fellow came into the room and sat across the table from her.

“You seem nonplussed for a woman who was just picked up by complete strangers and brought to a bunker to be interviewed by another stranger, Ms. Donovan,” he said, focusing a piercing stare at her.

He was a rather beaky sort of fellow, Sally thought. Like Snoopy pretending to be a vulture beaky, but with a fading hairline, posh suit and cool demeanor. He reminded her of Sherlock, but Sally figured that was just a ploy to rattle her. Instead of feeling shaken, Sally was irritated by the whole business.

The corners of her mouth twisted up slightly. “Oh I’ll admit to being scared,” she said. “But I also know better than to try and invoke the statutes to buy my freedom, given that I’m a guest of Her Majesty or an arm thereof.”

“What makes you so certain?”

Sally’s smile grew. “Well, I’ve been in all the police stations and Scotland Yard offices in London and England and all of them have mobile reception. This bunker doesn’t.”

Her interrogator’s eyebrow rose slightly.

“Here’s the thing,” Sally sat back and crossed her legs. “I remember a study that was in the Daily Mail that said people check their mobiles on average about every six minutes or so. You keep reaching for your phone on the table,every few minutes, but then draw your hand away as if you remember you don’t get mobile reception in here. It’s not a huge reach, but I can see your right hand twitch just so -- and when you’re trained to watch people, you notice stuff like this.”

“Very observant,” her interrogator’s lips quirked up to match her smile. “I was mistaken about you.”

“You know of me?” She fluttered her eyelashes, saccharine flavoring her voice. “I’m flattered.”  
  
He snorted. “Indeed I do and what I heard was wrong.”

“Most people are,” Sally replied. “But there’s also one other thing.”

“What?”

“One of your men had his badge hanging from a watch fob. The logo on it is MI-5. Saw it briefly. Not a good thing to do if you’re trying to be secret and all that.”

A mirthless laugh crept out of the man. “Do you know why you’re here?”

Sally shrugged. “That’s the one part that has me puzzled. I didn’t think you blokes did job recruiting in the middle of the night.”

“Then I shall get right to the point Ms. Donovan,” the man leaned forward. “What was your relationship to Sherlock Holmes?”

“Ooooh, he pissed you off too eh?” Sally smiled sweetly, happy for a target. This guy wasn’t Sherlock, but right now he was perfect. “Well, up until this afternoon, it was purely professional. I didn’t like him, he didn’t like me, my superior liked working with him, so I tolerated him.”

“What do you know of his suicide?”

Sally shrugged again. Channeling everything she ever learned from being hauled before the principal, she lied. “Probably about the same as you,” she replied. “We were about to haul him in for questioning when he decided to take the walk off of St. Bart’s. We’ve yet to see the body from the morgue, but I suspect with the landing --” she winced slightly, “he’s not walking away from that.”

The man nodded. “I see,” he replied. “What’s your relationship to Molly Hooper?”

“She’s my best friend,” Sally said. “Why do you ask?

“She’s admittedly a person of interest, as well as you.”

“I don’t believe we’ve done anything interesting.”

“Given her relationship to Mr. Holmes --”

“Of what? Colleague?” Sally snorted. “If you have any issues with either of us or how we handled the recently departed Mr. Sherlock Holmes, take them up with our superiors.” She leaned forward and stared him down. “Until then, fuck off.”

The man pulled back and left the room without a word. Sally leaned back and stared at the two-way mirror, then waved at it, before closing her eyes. Exhaustion began crashing into her as she idly wondered when was the last time she had slept. Probably more than twenty-four hours ago, and she wasn’t the type that could do without sleeping. Not to mention, the recent events had been taxing her brain and making her want nothing more than a stiff drink and time away from work. Which probably wasn’t going to happen -- Sherlock’s suicide was going to create a stir in the press and she was going to have to deal with cleaning up that mess. No, there wouldn’t be a stiff drink. What was needed was the biggest cup of coffee in the world. Maybe one she could swim in.

She closed her eyes, trying to let the buzzing of the fluorescent lights to carry her off to a quick nap. For however long she dozed for, it wasn’t enough. Soon enough the dapper little man returned. Sally lazily opened one eye, then sat up and stared at him.

“You’re free to go Ms. Donovan,” he said to her. “But don’t be surprised if we end up meeting again.”

Sally nodded. “Thank you Mr. --”

He offered a brittle smile, then left the room.

“Right,” she muttered to herself, then left the room. Outside the two agents that escorted her into the room were there and they escorted her home. It wasn’t until she was safely in her flat, door locked that she checked her phone.

There was a voicemail from the Chief Superintendent asking where she was and to contact him immediately. Ignoring that, she texted Molly.

 _Got picked up last night by a bloke_ , she wrote, hoping that Molly would understand what she meant.

Immediately her phone chimed back. _I need details!_

Sally sighed in relief. _Oh he worked me over all night long ;)_

_I definitely want details now. What’d he look like? Can we meet for breakfast?_

_Total surprise. He wasn’t my type. Pinched face, Saville Row suit and balding but he wouldn’t let up at all. Meet at the usual place for breakfast in an hour?_

_I’ll be there. This sounds juicy._

~*~

Dawn found Sherlock pacing the flat. Toby was perched on a table, watching him with interest while Molly dozed. His mobile pinged again, and he pulled it out, hands shaking.

“Molly Hooper,” he said, voice tinged with wonder.

“Hrm?” Molly opened her eyes and glanced over at him.

“You never cease to amaze me,” Sherlock shoved the mobile in her face.

_After a night of interrogation, Sally Donovan said nothing. Doctor Hooper’s trust is well founded._

Molly smiled. “Of course I’m amazing,” she replied. Her mobile then buzzed, and she grabbed it, reading the text messages. “It’s Sally,” she said, typing a response. “She wants to warn me.”

“How do you know?”

Molly showed him the texts. “How could she meet someone so quickly after leaving my flat?” she said as he read it.

“I underestimated both of you,” he said.

“As Sally would say, ‘Course you did,’” Molly stretched and stood. “I’ve got to get dressed and go to her.”

Sherlock placed a hand on her chest and pushed her down. “No,” he said. “You’ve got to stay here. Mycroft is coming to brief you on the next part.”

“Next part?” Molly felt her stomach drop. “I thought I was done. I’ve got to go to her -- I can’t just leave her --”

Sherlock kneeled in front of her and put her hands in his. “Molly,” he said, dropping his voice an octave, which resulted in a shiver sliding up her spine. “I need you for now more than Sally needs you. I promise you’re almost done. I just need you a little more. ”

Molly chewed on her lip as a bunch of illicit fantasies ran through her head. “I can’t just leave her behind,” she replied after a moment. “I’ll do this for you, because you know I’d do anything for you. But you have to tell her what’s going on. I can’t just leave her behind without a word. She wouldn’t do that to me and I won’t do it to her.”

“Are you sure you’re not in a Sapphic relationship?”

Molly burst out laughing. “Unfortunately no,” she snorted. “She’s not you and I’m not Adrian Lester and I am capable of loving people in a myriad of ways. You need to learn that Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s face lit up. “That explains why you said Lester to her. This is one of those rules of friendship isn’t it? The Lester Rule?”

“You know,” Molly began, “Sally was right --”

He looked chastened.

“For an intelligent man, you can be awfully thick sometimes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up folks who are reading:
> 
> There's not going to be updates for a couple of weeks. I've got plates spinning in the air and unfortunately, this one is one that may have to drop for a couple weeks or so. But sit tight. I promise I'll be back. 
> 
> And thanks for reading! I really do appreciate that.


	6. Cups of coffee, pints of ale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay folks -- I've been wrestling with a bout of writers block (Sally and Mycroft continue to stare each other down whilst drinking terrible coffee) as well as real life biting me in the ass.
> 
> But thank you for reading. We're getting close to the end, so I hope you're enjoying what I've got going for y'all :D

Even though the cafe was empty, Sally insisted on a table towards the back, where she could watch the door. Sipping her coffee, she tried to remain cool. Christ -- how many cups of coffee had she consumed? Sally wasn’t sure if she had blood in her system now or coffee.

She felt the presence of someone behind her and a hand on her shoulder. Sally tensed and realized there wasn’t anything on the table she could defend herself with.

“Relax Sally,” Sherlock muttered. His hand left her shoulder and she watched him slide over to the chair across from her. He had a cap pulled over his dark hair and instead of the posh suits, Sherlock was wearing a track suit in a bright yellow. If it was any other circumstances, Sally would’ve been doubled over laughing -- apparently his plan for hiding was to wear the most hideous clothing possible. But in this case, the lack of sleep and excessive amounts of caffeine were making her nerves jangly and she just offered a humorless smile.

“I’ve come to let you know that your mysterious friend who ‘worked you over’ --” his voice took on a leering tone, “Is an associate of mine who is aiding me in this endeavor. He was simply protecting me. I don’t need you panicking and doing something stupid.”

Sally let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “I didn’t know you had allies,” she said. “I thought you were a loner.”

“They can be useful.” He smirked.

"Where’s Molly?”

  
“I need her,” Sherlock replied.

  
“What the hell? She fulfilled her part of the job. Let her be,” Sally could feel bile rising.

  
"Why do you care so much?" His eyes gleamed in amusement.

  
"She's my friend and I'm trying to protect her from you," Interesting -- Sherlock looked hurt for a moment, but Sally continued in her rant. "Don't give me that look. You’ll find no pity here. You hurt her on Christmas and you're going to do it again. You know how I know? Because you know she still loves you and you're willing to exploit it any way possible.

  
"I don't like you for many reasons. I don't like that you're cruel, arrogant and willing to use people as pawn pieces in your mind games. I don't think you’re professional. I think that you're some public school wanker playing detective. I even suspect that I'm part of your disappearing act, but I don't know how yet.

  
"But what I really hate? I don't care that you used me. That’s normal and I don’t care what you think of me. What I'm livid about is that you've hurt my best friend and you're going to do it again. And she's going to let you," Sally sighed and took a sip of her coffee. "You don't realize how lucky you are to have her in your corner."

  
"It sounds like you love her."

  
"I do," catching the gleam in his eyes, Sally snapped, "What is with you men? I love her, as my sister and my friend. Jesus, you say you love someone and everyone assumes you’re fucking them."

  
"So there will be no happy announcement?"

  
Sally snorted. "No."

  
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Sally wondered what the hell she was doing there still when Sherlock finally spoke.

  
"As I said before, I need her. I won't go into sentiment, unlike you, but I promise that she won't be a shattered husk when this is done. She's decided to help willingly and without reservation."

  
"I can't fathom as to why --"

  
"Nor can I."

  
That surprised Sally, but she sipped her coffee to cover her expression.

  
"As a result, I trust you," he said. "Because she does."

  
“Fine,” Sally said. “Go. Take care of her. Make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid like marry you as an undercover ruse or something.”

  
Sherlock nodded, then made to stand, but Sally grabbed his hand.

  
“One more thing though,” Sally said. “Who is your associate? The beaky fellow with the excessive taste for tweed?”

  
Sherlock stood, a grim smile on his lips. “My mortal enemy,” and with that, he left the cafe.

  
Sally rolled her eyes as she watched him leave, "Dramatic cunt."

  
~*~

  
“Since you’ve had contact with Mr. Holmes and we’re investigating whether or not Lestrade’s department obeyed regulations whilst employing Mr. Holmes as a consultant, you will be placed on administrative leave,” the Chief Superintendent rambled.

  
While Sally’s face had an expression of attentiveness, inside she her stomach churned. After meeting Sherlock, she headed to Scotland Yard to be dragged into a meeting with the Chief Superintendent. It had been a rough morning as the press was circling around Scotland Yard, calling out for Lestrade’s resignation and a cleaning of the entire force. Accusations of bent cops seeking glory were splattered across the pages, along with stories of “SUICIDE BY FAKE GENIUS.”

  
“-- Of course you will be paid for your time while we investigate this matter,” he droned on, before finishing with, “This is effective immediately.”

  
Sally nodded. “Of course sir,” she said, standing.

  
The superintendent nodded, before waving his hands to dismiss her. Sally walked out of the office and headed for her desk to gather a few things. She could see Lestrade in his office, hands in his hair and an ashen colour on his face.

  
Despite common sense indicating that she shouldn’t be doing this, Sally knocked on his door and opened it.

  
Lestrade looked up at her. He hadn’t been sleeping either, judging by his look.

  
“You look like you could use a drink,” Sally said.

  
“It’s fuckin’ 10 in the morning Sally,” he replied.

  
“Well, it’s five in the evening somewhere else,” she shot back. “And we’re both on administrative leave so why the hell not?”

  
Lestrade cracked a smile. “Why the hell not?” he replied.

  
They found themselves at the usual pub -- the same one Molly and Sally had met at after that shooting in Hackney. Alfie wasn’t behind the bar, but Eddie was a familiar face that knew what they both liked.

  
The two of them sat at the bar, thankful that it was empty and drank their drinks. Once the pints were downed, Eddie came back with another pair of pints, which were downed. An hour and two pints later, Sally finally spoke.

  
“I’m sorry about what happened to you,” she said.

  
“But you’re not sorry that you started this whole thing in the first place,” Lestrade grinned.

  
Sally opened her mouth to defend herself, but Lestrade shook his head. “It’s all right Sally,” he added. “You just voiced the concerns that half of the division had, but were afraid to talk about.” Lestrade took a sip of his pint.

  
“Oh bloody hell,” Sally snapped. “First off, you saw that girl scream -- how can you discount a reaction like that? Even if he was the golden boy? How else did he solve so many cases so fast? I know you’re going to say that it’s because he was that good, but come on -- you know we all were that good.”

  
He nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “Given time, we could’ve done it, but no one was that fast. And you know the pressure we were facing -- the suicides? Moriarty? The kidnapping? You know the press was baying for blood along with our superiors. Don’t forget, they were happy to have him and his results.”

  
“Until me,” Sally took a swig of her pint.

  
“Until you,” Lestrade chuckled sardonically. “Rather, until that girl screamed her head off.”

  
“Like you wouldn’t be suspicious.”

  
Lestrade shrugged. They sat in silence. They finished their pints. Eddie dropped off another set of pints.

  
“Just so you know,” Lestrade sighed after taking a long sip, “I’m not angry at you. If you didn’t say something, Anderson would’ve or someone else. He wasn’t invited on cases because he was liked and I suspect many were waiting for him to fall.”

  
“You still believe him,” Sally said.

  
He nodded. “He was a right and proper twat at times, but I don’t know. I thought I was helping him in a way -- he needed this and I’d rather have him on our side than trying to catch him.”

  
Sally nodded. He had a point, she had to admit. It wasn’t good or noble, but it was a reasonable point from a haggard man trying to do better.

  
Lestrade finished his pint and turned around. Leaning against the bar, he looked over at Sally and smiled crookedly. “Ah well,” he shrugged. “We’ll see what happens. Nothing else can be done, can it?”

  
“Nope,” Sally couldn’t help but grin back. “Remember, I’m just as fucked as you are. We’re all probably fucked.”

  
“And I’m sorry about that,” Lestrade said. “Look, you are a good copper and no matter what he said, you did a damn good job.” He checked his watch. “Shit,” he muttered. “I should probably head on home or something. Wait for a phone call to hear what happens next, although I don’t expect to hear from anyone anytime soon. Sherlock did do a lot -- not just for us, but for other divisions.”

  
After paying -- which Sally insisted upon -- the two staggered out into the daylight. Blinking owlishly, Lestrade groaned as he remembered something.

  
“Fucking hell,” he said. “And I’m going to have to explain this all to Sherlock’s brother.”

  
Sally blinked. “Wait,” she said. “He had a  brother? I would’ve figured after Sherlock they would’ve shut down the reproduction factory.”

  
Lestrade barked out a laugh. “Oh, he’s the big brother,” he leaned on Sally’s arm. “Rather protective over Sherlock, so I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m hauled before him to explain myself.”

  
A cold wave of realization washed over Sally. “You don’t have to explain shit to him,” she muttered, masking her fear. “He’s family, it’s an investigation, when we get results, we’ll let him know.”

  
“Oh you don’t know Mycroft --”

  
_Who the hell named those kids? Sadists?_ Sally thought.

  
“-- I did some digging into him -- I couldn’t find much, just that he’s a government auditor, but rumor has it he’s one of those high end muckety-mucks with Intelligence,” Lestrade continued. “Which explains how Sherlock got clearance into so many things like St. Barts. By the way, how’s Molly holding up?”

  
Sally shook her head. “Not great,” she said -- which was sort-of-true. “She’s basically taking a leave of absence right now because of everything. Said she needed time away to clear her head. She refuses to go to the funeral -- says it’s too much for her to bear.”

  
Lestrade nodded. “Always had an eye for him,” he replied. “Funny how he never saw that.”

  
“Yeah,” Sally shook her head. “I never understood that, but it was her thing.”

  
He shook his head. “Welp,” he said, “I’ll be heading off. Take care and hopefully we won’t see each other at the job centre eh?”

  
Sally waved a hand. “Let’s hope,” she said with false cheeriness.

  
~*~

  
“I’ve got my ticket for the long way ‘round,” Molly sang under her breath as the train left the station. Her hands moved the paper coffee cup around on her lap. “Two bottles of whiskey for the way --”

  
Before she could do more, Sherlock’s hand took the cup off of her lap and he leaned his head against her shoulder. Molly froze.

  
“Relax,” he whispered in her ear. “You don’t look like someone who is eager to go on holiday with her beau.”

  
“You took my cup away,” Molly snapped, hands reaching for it. Sherlock moved and the cup slipped out of her grasp. “I was working on something.”

  
“Dull,” he dismissed and pulled her over to him so her head was resting on his chest. His arm slid around her. Not that she was flustered. She was too tired to be flustered. Mycroft had briefed her on everything -- “Act natural, you’re just a couple together on holiday, it will only be for a bit and then you can return.  It’s like all those pretend fantasies that people have. Also, despite what he says, he will need a friend -- he’s lost his main anchor in life, so don’t be surprised if he behaves in unusual ways”. It also helped that it had been more than twenty-four hours since she last slept, so the only mood she had was a low-grade irritation that her life was disrupted.

  
“And I am acting natural for the circumstances I am currently enduring,” she groused into his chest. “I need something to do. I’ve had too much coffee and not enough sleep and the only thing to keep me busy is that cup and that song I was singing -- saw it on Youtube once and I wanted to master it, so there’s no time like the present since I’ve got nothing else to do.”

  
“You could nap,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled. “We will be in France soon enough.”

  
“Can’t,” Molly said. “That coat you’re wearing is hideously itchy and the color is so loud that I think it’s an alarm clock.” It was indeed a hideous coat -- mustard yellow with some black print on it. Apparently Sherlock believed that the easiest way to disguise himself was to dress in the ugliest things imaginable. Because no one would believe he would wear that.

  
“My you’re cranky,” he chuckled.

  
“You’ve been keeping me up all night,” she yawned. The train picked up steam. Molly’s eyelids drooped and she could feel sleep overtaking her. “What’s the next stop?” she murmured sleepily.

  
“Don’t worry about it,” Sherlock murmmured into her ear. “I’ll let you know. Think of it as a surprise."

  
Molly’s hands slid over and grabbed the cup from Sherlock and she held onto it. “I’ve got my ticket for the long way ‘round,” she mumbled, twirling the cup in her hands as her eyes shut and she slipped into the sweet nothingness of sleep.


	7. Ice cream and interrogations

Sally was running through Hampstead Heath, listening to a playlist that Molly had suggested to her after a long discussion about boy bands ( _“Seriously Sally, New Kids On The Block’s Click, Click, Click is a sexy song. Stop laughing at me.”_ ) when she noticed she was being tailed.

They were pretty good at following people, she noted. After all, they’d sometimes pass her, or double back and one would pass her while the other was running behind her. They were professionals.

It had been a week since Molly left with Sherlock. During that time, some of the press drew its attention away from Scotland Yard and began focusing on the mysterious Richard Brook that was profiled in Kitty Reilly's article. According to numerous named sources, Richard Brook never was an actor, never was on shows and upon further digging, never existed, which raised other questions.

On top of that, several former clients of Sherlock’s had come forward to defend the man, saying he was indeed a genius -- who didn’t suffer fools -- but also displayed a breadth of knowledge that was astounding.

Not that it really mattered to Sally. Scotland Yard was still investigating and she was still on leave. A few newspaper articles wasn’t going to change that. Left to her own devices, she found herself boxing more, as well as running in the Heath to settle her mind.

She worried about Molly and wondered where she was and how she was doing. Sally hoped that Molly hadn’t married Sherlock in a crazy ruse nor was she being used as bait by Sherlock to draw out someone. While Molly may have known some boxing, Sally wasn’t sure if she could defend herself in a fight.

 _I wish I had time to teach her more self defense_ , Sally thought as she ran. She wasn’t worried about the people tailing her. Given how quiet the trails were, they would’ve had plenty of opportunity to do something untoward to her, but hadn’t.

So maybe it was time to cause some trouble.

Pulling the earbuds out of her ears, Sally turned around and ran towards one of the people tailing her. The man stopped.

“Hello!” Sally said cheerily. “Fine day for a run eh?”

He nodded, avoiding her eyes. Upon closer inspection, Sally recognized the man. “We’ve met before,” she said.

He shrugged. “People tell me that all the time,” he said.

Sally sidled closer, invading his personal space. “Now, now,” she said. “The last time I saw you, you escorted me home after I had to deal with being dragged off to an MI-5 bunker. Let’s not bullshit,” she smiled sweetly. “What’s your name?”

He shrugged.

“I’m going to call you Cobra,” Sally grinned. She sensed she wasn’t alone and turned around to see the other runner -- the other man who had manhandled her into that car. “And I’ll call you Bubbles.”

Neither man smiled.

“Look,” Sally sighed. “I know you’re not going to tell me information as to why you’re tailing me, but I’d like you to pass on a message,” she stood on tip-toe and whispered into Cobra’s ear, “Tell Mycroft Holmes if he wants to know what I’m doing, he can come and talk to me. This is just silly and a waste of government resources.”

She turned and began running. Neither Cobra nor Bubbles followed her. Sally wasn’t sure what her next move would be, apart from just letting that beaky fellow know she knew who he was. Having a week of nothing to do was slowly driving her mad and the urge to kick some hornets’ nests was pretty strong. For a moment, Sally wondered how much trouble she would get into if she hired a graphics artist to spray “MYCROFT HOLMES IS A TWAT” on walls within sight of CCTV. The thought thrilled the delinquent part of her, truth be told.

So when she neared the entrance of the park and saw the sleek black car there with Cobra and Bubbles standing at attention, with the door open, Sally bounded into the car, prepared to be flanked by the two of them.

Once the door closed and the car began moving, Sally asked, “Can we go and get a decent cup of coffee?”

“No.”

~*~

It was the same nondescript office building, same bunker, same weak coffee, Sally mused. Someone had at least taken the effort to microwave the coffee, but had overdone it so it was scalding when it hit her mouth. As a result, Sally took some satisfaction in the fact that she was sweaty and possibly smelly after her run.

“So you know who I am,” the beaky fellow said after entering the room with cup of coffee in his hand.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Sally smiled. “Speak his name and the devil appears.”

Mycroft offered a tight smile in response. “Sally Donovan,” he said, sliding the cup of coffee over to her. Sally eyed it suspiciously for a moment. “My dear,” Mycroft huffed an annoyed sigh, “I promise you it isn’t drugged with truth serum. I’ll know if you’re lying to me.”

Sally opened the cover and sniffed. _What kind of game are you playing?_ she wondered, as the heady aroma of a rich Jamaican Blue swirled around her. It was lightly creamed and smelled heavenly. She took a sip and savored it. She looked over at Mycroft, who had a slight smile on his lips.

“Nice coffee,” Sally said. “I didn’t know I was worthy of Jamaican Blue.”

“I’m impressed you know your coffees,” Mycroft replied. “I felt that if we are to have an alliance of sorts, giving you that swill they call coffee --” he eyed the other cup with disdain, “would not be a proper peace sign.”

Sally allowed herself to smile. If Mycroft was as half as smart as Sherlock, she knew there wasn’t a point to hiding her thoughts, “An alliance? How proper.”

Mycroft nodded. “Now how can I help you?”

She sipped the coffee. Apparently Mycroft had excellent taste when it came to coffee and for  moment, Sally wondered if prolonging this meeting would get her another cup of this magic elixir. “What’s with the security detail?” she asked. “I’m feeling like a Royal. Do I get to introduce my escorts to my family? Because my mother has interrogation techniques I suspect weren’t approved by Geneva convention.”

Mycroft’s smile tightened even more, making it look like he was sucking on a lemon. “Admittedly the detail was perhaps a bit excessive,” he replied. “But you are a person of interest regarding Sherlock Holmes.”

“Have I done anything interesting?”

“You’re now on garden leave,” Mycroft began. “Well, you and perhaps half of Scotland Yard, given the scope and range of cases Sherlock consulted on. Currently you spend most of your time boxing and running -- you’re a very kinesthetic person or you’re seeking a distraction. You’re also spending time minding your cousin’s daughter while she attends nursing school. And so far, you haven’t spoken to the press, even though they’ve attempted to contact you at times.

“You know they’d offer a pretty penny,” Mycroft leaned forward. “And it would clear up the rumors that you’re just a spurned lover seeking revenge.”

Sally frowned at that. Somewhere along the way, some “anonymous” source at Scotland Yard named her, saying that she had blown the whistle on him. But the motives were left to speculation, the most popular being that Sherlock had rejected Sally’s romantic advances.

She shrugged, “To quote my younger cousins, ‘Bitches talking shit but they ain’t sayin’ nothin.’”

“Chaucer?” Mycroft’s smile warmed and a spark of playfulness peeked out for a moment.

“Ghandi,” Sally grinned back. “It’s a sexist argument that the only reason why I’d object to Sherlock’s presence is because he didn’t want to fuck me, but people will talk. It’s all they do.”

“Aren’t you worried about your reputation?”

“The ones who I would worry about know the truth,” Sally sipped the coffee. “Besides, it’s more entertaining to the give phone to Nikka and tell her that it’s Santa asking what she wants for Christmas.”

Mycroft actually laughed. It was a warm chuckle of amusement and Sally felt oddly pleased with herself that she managed to achieve her goal so quickly.

“How is she?” Sally asked after a moment.

Mycroft shrugged. “I assume safe,” he replied. “Sherlock hasn’t mentioned her in our sparse communications.”

Sally made a face -- either Mycroft could be withholding information or he honestly didn’t know. No matter what, Sally realized she wasn’t going to get any answers from him. Giving her information would be creating a potential leak. Frustrating, but understandable.

“You are not pleased with that answer?”

“Being pleased has nothing to do with it,” she replied.

Mycroft nodded. “Is there anything else you require Sergeant Donovan?”

For some reason, Sally was heartened by hearing her title. It wasn’t just the respect, but a little hope that she hadn’t completely obliterated her career aiding Molly.  “One thing,” she said.

Mycroft’s eyebrow quirked. “Yes?”

“It’s about her cat -- Toby is very important to her,” Sally began. “Just let her know her mother is spoiling that cat rotten.”

Mycroft nodded, then rose and exited the room.

~*~

“You don’t like authority do you?”

Another meeting, another shitty cup of coffee, Sally noted. Instead of bringing a cup of Jamaican Blue to her, Mycroft left her with the terribly weak coffee. She had been out getting groceries when a brunette woman sidled up to her, whispered, “Mycroft wants to see you,” and followed her out of the store.

“”What about my shopping?” Sally asked as she was herded into another black car. She had mentally cursed herself out for not noticing the woman. Despite the fact that she was attempting casual, it failed to fit in with Sally's usual haunt, given that the woman was wearing Burberry and had expensive boots on.

The woman began tapping on her smartphone. “It will be taken care of,” she said, not looking at Sally. “Don’t worry about that.”

That had been two hours ago. After being escorted to her holding pen, Sally was left waiting for Mycroft for over an hour. Left to stew in her own anger, Sally had visions of her ice cream turning into puddles in the shopping cart and her bacon going off.

So by the time Mycroft came into the room, Sally was spitting mad. His questions about how her previous week was were answered in grunts and monosyllables. She could tell she was annoying him, but it was petty revenge for her melted ice cream and bacon.

Which led him to the previous question.

Sally arched an eyebrow as she glared at him.

“You don’t like authority do you?” Mycroft asked again.

Sally offered a lupine smile. She knew there wasn’t a point to lying to Mycroft, but she also didn’t feel like being friendly with him today. “I don’t like people telling me what to do,” she replied. “Especially when they have their minions accost me while I’m shopping and make me leave my ice cream behind.”

“Yet you’re a police officer,” Mycroft ignored her mini rant and continued his line of questioning.

“I never saw being a copper as being authority,” she said, leaning forward and putting her elbows on the table. “I see it as helping those with no alternatives.”

There was a long silence -- Mycroft’s eyes began to sparkle with mirth and his face cracked as a chuckle burst out of him. “Bollocks,” he said, laughing. “You, Sally Donovan like control.”

Sally could feel the heat of humiliation begin to burn, similar to those moments when Sherlock would say something cutting about her personality or love life. “It would take one to know one,” she retorted, before feeling foolish. _It takes one to know one? What am I? Five?_

Mycroft’s smile vanished and for a moment, Sally felt victorious. Sometimes a sledgehammer would work when a rapier couldn’t be found and there was a moment of glee knowing she had wrestled a secret from Mycroft Holmes. It might have been petty, but it was worthwhile.

“You had a tete a tete recently,” Mycroft said, shifting the tone of the conversation.  “With a certain Calvin Ledford.”

“And?”

“How did it go?”

“Are you my mother now? Because you’re a bit skinnier and that color doesn’t work on her.”

Mycroft’s lips thinned further, if that was possible. He was starting to look like an angry Beaker, Sally thought to herself.

“Sergeant Donovan,” Mycroft leaned forward, putting his hands on the table. “Do not forget you are a person of interest as well as your activities. If you cooperate, then things will go a little more smooth for you.”

Sally tilted forward, mirroring Mycroft’s movements. “And you should know by now -- if you’re as smart as your brother -- that I don’t take kindly to threats.”

“But I do know that you have a pot of toasted coconut custard that needs to get into the freezer,” Mycroft replied cooly. “Or a replacement could be procured if you desire it.”

Sally huffed a sigh. “Fine,” she replied. “Only because you mentioned the ice cream. Yes, I met Calvin for coffee. I figure you have pulled information on him, so I won’t get into the details. He’s a nice enough guy. All right conversation, no big deal. Didn’t text me a picture of his willie, so he’s a nice enough bloke.”

“Do you plan on seeing him again?”

“Are you jealous?”

Mycroft’s lips got thinner.

“You’re wondering if I mentioned anything related to Sherlock,” Sally finally said, when the silence got too uncomfortable for her. “That’s not something I tend to open up with on dates -- ‘Oh hey! Did you know that I’m the one who blew the whistle on Sherlock Holmes?’”

“It is a concern,” Mycroft replied “After all, as people get closer and more intimate, secrets are often stripped away.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “You’re assuming that I would talk about your brother,” she said. “Most people, when they go out, do not talk about other people -- they tend to talk about themselves and their lives.”

“But sooner or later you’re going to discuss your suspension, or Molly Hooper and then the thread of conversation will lead to him.”

“And he took a walk off a roof,” Sally shrugged. “It’s all true.”

There was a long silence as Mycroft studied Sally. She leaned back in her seat and took a sip of the coffee. She wasn’t going to show fear -- besides they had met often enough that the shine had worn off of his “I’m the British Government and I’m Intimidating” glare. He was just another man in a suit to her.

Mycroft nodded, before standing. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me Sergeant Donovan,” he said, then exited the room.

After he left, Cobra and Bubbles entered and escorted Sally back to her flat. Much to her surprise, she found her groceries put away in her flat -- organized in the way that she preferred -- and her ice cream was safely in the freezer and not a melted puddle. Apparently her container of ice cream multiplied on the way home, because there was now two containers of toasted coconut ice cream instead of one.

Even more unsettling was the bouquet of mixed colour zinnias with a red rose on her table, carefully laid out -- not plunked in a spare wine bottle, like Sally normally would do. What the fresh hell is this? she wondered to herself as she looked up the meaning. _Thinking of an absent friend_ , she read. Well, that showed that whoever did Mycroft’s bidding understood the situation that she had been placed in.

The red rose? Typically that was love, which seemed as plausible as the next Doctor popping out of the TARDIS and offering her the adventure of a lifetime. However, another meaning was respect, according to the website Sally read. She snorted. _Just because he respects me doesn’t mean I’m going to play nice all the time_ , she thought.

Ignoring the ice cream for a moment, Sally opened the freezer, pulled out a bottle of vodka and poured herself a shot in her coffee mug. Slamming it down, she sat at the kitchen table and thought a bit. It was creepy -- there was no doubt about that. Knowing that Mycroft’s minions entered her apartment and put away her groceries, while doing possibly other things, worried her. The fact that he knew where she lived didn’t bother her as much -- that information was easy to obtain. But the breaking and entering? That crossed the line from “vaguely creepy” to “stalker.”

Those thoughts propelled her into ransacking her apartment, looking for listening devices and other monitoring equipment -- she even took the flowers out of the bowl, snipped the stems to make sure they weren’t wires and then put them in an empty beer bottle. Surprisingly, there were no cameras, no bugs, no monitoring devices in her flat.

But Sally knew better -- her conversations with Lestrade revealed the reach of Mycroft’s information gathering _(“Sally, what have you gotten into now?”_ Lestrade had asked with mild horror on his face. _“Do you realize who you’re tangling with?”_ ). To say that he was like a spider in the center of an enormous information web would’ve insulted Mycroft. It was safe to say that as long as there was a CCTV or a cell phone around, Mycroft knew exactly what was going on. He was the Matrix, minus the sleek sunglasses.

For now there was nothing she could do, Sally realized. She was in this mess and no matter what, there was going to be a Holmes in her life, whether she wanted one around or not.

Sally poured herself another shot and sipped it. “Thanks for the groceries,” she said out loud to no one in particular, unsure if Mycroft could hear her. “But next time I don’t need you dropping the off in my flat. Delivery after I come home will suffice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost at the end folks -- I think the next chapter is going to be the end of this little fic. Thanks for reading and feel free to leave comments, criticisms, quemments :D


	8. Reunited

If you asked Molly what she envisioned if she had to go on the run with Sherlock, she would have described something out of a James Bond movie -- glamorous and dangerous. There would be jet-setting to exotic places like Macau, where she’d have an alias like Angelica Breedlove and wear slinky gowns with her hair down. There would also be martinis and double entendre-laden conversation that also conveyed information gathering.

Reality was different. While they were in Paris, perhaps the most romantic city in the western hemisphere,  it wasn’t a four-star luxury hotel. Rather, Sherlock had found a cheap one bedroom flat. It was surprising -- despite his fastidiousness in grooming and appearance, Sherlock was a slob around the flat. Plates of food were often left half or uneaten, mugs of tea were left to cool on the windowsill and he left wet towels everywhere.

Then there was his habit of sleeping starkers. That was really unnerving when she woke up one morning, wandered into the kitchenette and found him reading the laptop clad only in a thin sheet.

“I don’t understand your prudish embarrassment,” Sherlock had called out to her as she apologized and scampered into the bathroom. “You see the human body nude all the time. Really it’s nothing to be ashamed of -- it’s merely a machine.”

After she got over her initial mortification, seeing Sherlock in a bedsheet was probably one of the biggest perks of this assignment, Molly thought to herself. Because lord knows he wasn’t holding up his end of the conversation.

Most of the time Sherlock could be found lying on the sofa, hands pressed together and under his chin, lost in thought. Either that or he’d be stooped over a laptop computer -- what he was doing, Molly couldn’t figure out at all, nor did she want to fathom it.

To be honest, she wasn’t quite sure what she was doing with him. Was she supposed to be his cover? His minder? Whatever it was, by the second week in, she was feeling restless and mentally itchy. It had been at least two weeks since her boxing class and she could feel  tightness in her shoulders and the need to throw a few punches around, instead of scrubbing another tea-stained mug.

“Spar with me.”

“Sorry?” Molly’s head whipped over to Sherlock, who had moved from his supine position to a sitting one on the sofa.

“You’re carrying a tightness in your shoulders and your feet are shuffling ever so slightly.  I can tell by the bending of your knees and the pivoting of your feet that you’re working on boxing combinations in your head,” he said, then stood. “You have some physical energy that needs to be burned off to maintain some equilibrium.”

In two strides, Sherlock crossed the small space and brought his fists up. “Physical exertion often helps achieve mental clarity,” he said, nudging into Molly’s personal space. “So if it will help you, it’s the least I can do to ensure your stability.”

Molly would be the first to admit that if Sherlock Holmes ever said to her “physical exertion often helps achieve mental clarity,” she had a different activity in mind. But since that initial offer at her flat, Sherlock didn’t revisit that idea and Molly didn’t want to ask for that -- it just seemed unfair given his current situation.

All that being said, she did need to burn off some of the nervous energy.

Setting the mug down in the sink, Molly turned to face Sherlock, her hands already up and guarding her face. He opened up with a jab, which she tapped down and the followed up with a hook to the face, which barely grazed his chin.

Sherlock smiled. “You are a woman of many surprises Molly Hooper,” he said, before stepping into her space.

“My universe used to not revolve around you,” she replied. Molly sunk her hips and swung down to attack his torso, but he sunk down and pivoted, following up with a counter punch to her open left side.  Molly stepped backwards, keeping her hands up.

Then Sherlock went for a right cross, looping his punch wide. That allowed Molly to duck down and then go for the body shot. She tapped him gently on the kidneys and followed up with an uppercut that grazed his chin again.

“You’re not terrible,” Sherlock said, pulling back to shed his dressing gown, which fell on the floor. “Taking lessons?”

“It’s where I met Sally,” Molly replied, as he stepped forward and their hands went up again.

“Speaking of which --”

“I hope she doesn’t lose her job because of my foolishness,” Molly dodged the right hook Sherlock shot out, choosing to follow with a left hook, which he deftly dodged. She had seen the news -- half of Scotland Yard was now on leave as they investigated the cases Sherlock had consulted on. Without a doubt, Sally was one of those people.

“Coppers don’t take kindly to snitches amongst their own,” he remarked, continuing his assault. Sherlock pressed forward, a flurry of blows coming at Molly, who concentrated on dodging and parrying them.

Molly’s gut twitched with guilt. With that slip in concentration, Sherlock pressed his advantage and she felt herself falling backwards against the countertop.

Sherlock dropped his hands and pulled back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t --”

Molly shook her head. “It’s all right,” she said, returning to scrubbing the tea stains out of the mug. “I just hope she’s fine.”

“Mycroft is watching her,” Sherlock said. “She is apparently taking some glee is annoying him.”

Molly chuckled. “She’s bored. Being on leave doesn’t suit her. And Mycroft is a way to distract her from the fact that she’s wrecking her career.”

“To be fair, I never thought she was that bad of an inspector -- really, the best of a bad lot,” Sherlock said, as he leaned against the countertop and studied her face.

“Sherlock --” Molly was glad that some of her hair had slipped free of her elastic and covered up part of her face so he couldn’t see her bemused expression.

“Not good?”

“I know you meant well,” Molly replied, deciding against lecturing Sherlock. “But if Mycroft can protect our jobs so we both have a way to pay our rent, that would be wonderful.”

She could feel Sherlock’s stare bore into her, but she continued to scrub the stains out of the mugs. After a few moments, he padded off, back to the sofa to resume his meditations.

The rest of the evening passed in usual quiet. But in the morning, Molly awoke to find Sherlock at the foot of her bed, holding a tray that had a plate with toast and jam on it and a cup of tea. It was unnerving.

“Sherlock --” Molly stammered, as she smoothed her hair and hoped that her breath wasn’t bad. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock set the tray down beside her and sat next to it. “I’ve come to a conclusion,” he started rapidly, eyes boring into hers. “You have to leave. I’ve already contacted Mycroft and I’ve also made you a reservations at La Pavillion Des Lettres for today -- don’t ask about the cost, I once solved a case there so they owe me a favor or two.”

Molly blinked. Was he throwing her out? “Sherlock --” she started again. “Are you getting rid of me? Have I been a burden to you? I’m so--”

“No,” he replied emphatically. “I’ve realized the next steps I must take and that they have to be taken alone.”

She swallowed and nodded. “I understand,” she lied. “Are you sure you’ll be safe?”

He shrugged. “I suppose so. But certainly I’ll have less to worry about if you’re out of harm’s way.”

“I’m not sure if that means you’re worried about my safety or you think I’m too stupid to keep up with you,” Molly said, sipping the tea. Sherlock made a decent cup of tea, much to her surprise. She took a bite of the toast.

Sherlock looked momentarily chastened.

“I was joking,” Molly smiled and gently took his hand. “I knew this was going to happen, but I guess I didn’t think it was going to be so soon.”

They sat in silence while Molly sipped her tea and ate the toast. It was surprisingly good. She wasn’t sure if he could cook, given that Sherlock never ate, so this was a pleasant revelation. Molly’s thoughts turned back to home and her flat.

“I wonder how Toby is,” she mused.

“Mycroft told me that Sally informed him your mother is watching him and spoiling him rotten,” Sherlock said. “Apparently Toby is living with her now.”

“Of course she’d spoil him,” Molly smiled. “She’s sent Toby Christmas presents and called him her grandson.” She caught the aghast look in Sherlock’s eye. “I know it’s embarrassing,” Molly added. “But that’s what my mum does.”

He nodded. Molly finished her tea and toast in silence. “I suppose that I’ll be heading back to London then,” she said, getting out of bed and stretching. “I wonder how I’m going to explain all of this.”

“Oh, I said we were parting, but I didn’t say you were going to be returning home,” Sherlock said.

~*~

“I was wondering Ms. Donovan, if you would be interested in having coffee?”

Sally blinked and stared at Mycroft. “Isn’t that what we do already?” she asked. “You usually pick me up, haul me off to some concrete bunker without windows and press some cold and weak coffee or tea in my hand as you ask me questions about my life, who has contacted me and the like?”

“Well, yes,” Mycroft thinly smiled. “But I was thinking of a place with windows. And perhaps some nice pastries with the coffee or tea.”

The realization hit Sally like a ton of bricks. “Oh --” she said, feeling her jaw drop and Mycroft’s smile thin out more, which was possible, despite what she initially thought. “Oh!”

“So nice of you to catch up with me,” he said.

“Why?” Sally stammered.

Mycroft pressed his lips together and offered a shrug. “I find you interesting,” he finally said after a moment. Sally waited for more, but no other explanation was given. Which admittedly annoyed her a bit, given that she didn’t know if interesting meant _you’re an attractive woman I’d like to get to know more outside of this situation_ or _I would like to conduct some social mindfucks with your brain for awhile._

“I don’t know what to say,” Sally started. “I mean, I’m flattered --”

“But,” Mycroft continued. The smile faded from his face and his expression was schooled to be carefully neutral.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and then opened them. “There’s no point in lying, because you’re a Holmes, the British government and very, very scary,” she started. “But I am not interested in dating or relationships right now. And while it would be entertaining to date you simply to watch Sherlock have an aneurism --”

A more genuine smile tugged on the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t succeed in the battle to overtake his face.

“-- I can’t,” Sally could feel herself babbling, and inwardly cursed. Never before had she rambled so much, but then again, there was no point in lying to him, so maybe this was better. “I’ve had a very stressful time. My best friend is in hiding thanks to her helping fake the death of Sherlock Holmes.

“Who I had arrested for fraud because of how damned accurate he is with his cases and I’m still not convinced of his innocence, even though Molly believes in him. But that’s what you do with friends -- you may disagree with them, but you trust them and help them as best you can,” Sally could feel her hands shaking as her mouth continued running.

“And I’m on leave thanks to everyone looking into the cases and because I worked with the Freak, and odds are pretty good that I’ll be transferred back to the London Met, which might not be a bad thing, even though it’s less status. I’m doing a method acting thing where I’m pretending to be someone who has a normal life so I can deal with the press, the lack of job security, that I’ve lost my best friend and that I’m lying about a huge portion of my life.

“So yeah, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. Really juggling a relationship right now just gives me a headache -- just so you know, things petered out with Calvin, but that’s a relief to be honest. And I’ve just turned down probably the most powerful man in British government, so I’ll have a life filled with parking tickets. Fantastic.”

Mycroft’s expression changed from neutral to bemused. “What about after all this? Would you be interested after all this has settled?”

“You know something I don’t,” Sally sighed, as she stared into the paper cup and the cold coffee. “I don’t know. Right now the only thing I want is my best friend back, a long holiday somewhere warm, no reporters calling me, no family asking me when I’m going to work and the chance to sleep for about a week.”

Mycroft nodded. “Understandable,” he said, standing. “It was good to see you Sergeant Donovan and I hope that you get what you wish for.”

Sally stood and held out her hand. “I’d say I’ll see you later, but I don’t doubt I’m under your watchful eye as is,” she replied.

Mycroft took her hand. Instead of shaking it he brought it up and gently placed it to his lips. It was so old-fashioned that Sally couldn’t help but smile. _Who does that anymore?_ she wondered to herself.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant Donovan,” he said, opening the door.

“Likewise, Mr. Holmes,” Sally nodded, then left.

This time the same brunette woman -- Sally presumed she was Mycroft’s assistant -- escorted her home. She spent the whole time tapping on the mobile, her eyes glued to the screen. Sally didn’t mind that -- at least with this one there was more room in the backseat, instead of being sandwiched between Cobra and Bubbles.

As the car stopped in front of her flat, the woman handed her an envelope.

“What’s this?” Sally asked.

The woman looked over at her with a pitying expression that silently stated _How can you be so thick?_

Sally rolled her eyes, then opened the envelope. Inside was a train ticket to Paris and a note:

_Sergeant Donovan --_

_Your presence is requested at the La Pavillion Des Lettres. Since you are on leave, I trust that you’ll be able to go there quickly._

_SH_

Sally stared at the note, then glanced back at the woman.

“You had better have your bags packed,” the woman said, not looking up from her phone. “We can offer you a ride to St. Pancras.”

~*~

Molly’s mobile vibrated, dancing across the cafe table. Putting down her book and grabbing the phone she answered it.

“Hello?”

“Molly,” Sherlock’s voice slid through the ether and into her ear. “Do you find the hotel suite satisfactory?”

Molly bit her lip and blushed. It was like Sherlock had read her mind for what she wanted -- the Pavillion des Lettres was elegant and modern. The room she had was a junior suite, with a view of the Eiffel Tower. Service was wonderful and discreet with the staff gently fawning over her and saying that whatever she wished would be taken care of, since “Any friend of the departed Sherlock Holmes is a friend of this hotel.”

“It’s spectacular,” she replied. “I feel spoiled here -- they’re all so lovely and the library is a treat. Thank you so much.”

“No need for the niceties,” he said. “I’ve been informed that it’s probably best you stay out of London for a bit.”

“Is everything OK?” Molly found herself leaning forward and closing the Neil Gaiman comic she had found in the library. Fortunately, she resisted the urge to look around for Sherlock.

“It will be, but not yet. Besides, I was trying to find a way to express my gratitude for your assistance.”

She sucked in a breath, resisting the urge to coo. “It was nothing,” Molly said. “I’m more than happy to help you. You know that.”

“You’d be surprised how many people say that without intending to follow through,” Sherlock replied. “Now, I need you to be calm.”

“Why --” Molly began, but was cut off as she felt someone brush past her seat. She looked up and around, but saw no one around her. Picking up her bag by instinct, she opened it to check that her wallet was still inside. Which it was -- along with a thick envelope. Molly refused to open the envelope then and there. It could wait until she was alone in her room.

Her eyes darted up towards the hallway and she caught sight of a lanky bloke, wearing a tank top and casual trousers, exiting the hotel. The familiar dark mop was gelled to standing formation -- he really did look like Jean Ralphio in that outfit, Molly mused.

Molly grinned. “You sneaky little bugger,” she giggled. “You could’ve stopped by to say hullo.”

“Too risky,” Sherlock replied, his voice indicating he was returning to business. “But one thing --”

“Yes?”

“Did you ever master that song about the cups?”

“Well, you heard me sing it around the flat,” she replied. “What do you think?”

A low chuckle emitted from the other end. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I think I did,” she said as she watched Sherlock walk past the window, then stop in front of her. Not making eye contact, he seemed to be perusing a guidebook, while talking on the phone. If someone didn’t know better, you could imagine he was a tourist, looking for the latest nightclub in Paris.

“Sing it for me,” his eyes briefly made contact with hers.

Molly blushed, but decided against squawking. _Fine_ she thought _fine, fine, fine. You want to challenge me, I’ll do it it._ “When I’m gone,” she began quietly, a smile playing on her lips, “When I’m gone, you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone. You’re gonna miss me by my walk, you’re gonna miss me by my talk, you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.”

She knew her voice was thin and reedy, but she continued to sing softly. Thankfully the lounge was empty and quiet, so there was minimal risk in embarrassing herself. “You’re gonna miss me by my hair, you’re gonna miss me everywhere, you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock walked out of her line of vision. “Goodbye Molly.”

Molly swallowed, realizing that this might be last time she talked to him. “Come back safe,” she said. “For everyone’s sake.”

“I plan on it,” he said, then there was a click, and silence.

Molly hung up her mobile and gathered up her things. She waited until she was in her room, the door securely shut, before she allowed herself a little cry over the whole situation -- _After these past few weeks, you deserve this,_ she thought. Once that was over, she pulled the envelope out.

“Right,” she said to herself. “What do you have planned for me now Mr. Holmes?”

A surprised gasp escaped her as she examined the contents of the envelope. For the second time in ten minutes, tears pricked her eyes. _You utter prat_ , she thought. _You better come back alive so I can show my gratitude for everything you’ve done._

Then the door knocked. Molly quickly shoved the contents back into her purse and closed her purse. Wandering over to the door, she glanced through the peephole, gasped, then flung open the door.

There was Sally -- looking a little more worn and tired, armed with a bag and a smile on her face.

Molly threw her arms around her and yanked her into the room. “YOU!” she screeched.

“ME!” Sally shrieked in response before pulling back. “You didn’t get married to him did you?”

“Well, I have a confession --”

“If you say you’re pregnant I’m going to hit you,” Sally laughed.

Molly shook her head. “Nope. Just pretended to be a couple for a bit. Not that it mattered,” she led Sally into the suite. “He never left the place -- just sat on the couch thinking or playing with his laptop.”

Sally snorted, before taking in the suite. “Impressive,” she said. The room was enormous, with two beds and a tray of different refreshments sitting on a table.

“Isn’t it?” Molly squeaked as she bounced around Sally. “Sherlock said I should stay here for a bit after he left town, just to ensure my safety. This is so much nicer than that little flat we were staying at. He didn’t mention you were coming.” She flung her arms around her friend again. “I missed you.”

Sally hugged Molly back. “Me too,” she said as they pulled apart. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“It wasn’t anything weird,” Molly said, handing Sally a glass of water and motioning for her to sit. “Really, all I did was visit the corner store to get food, walked the streets and didn’t do much. He spent most of his time on the couch in silence or on his laptop.” Molly blushed as a memory bubbled to the surface. “The weirdest thing was that he always insisted on sleeping starkers.”

Water sprayed out of Sally’s mouth, as she tried to keep from laughing. “You’re pulling my leg aren’t you?”

Molly shook her head. “Nope.”

“That must’ve been like your birthday and Christmas all wrapped up together.”

“It was mortifying,” Molly said. “I mean, it was like waving a packet of cocaine in front of Pete Doherty. I tried not to look --”

Sally wagged a finger in Molly’s face, “Liar!” she screeched. “You totally took a peek. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t.”

Molly blushed. “Well --” she began.

“YOU TOTALLY TOOK A LOOK!” Sally crowed and began laughing. “So how is he? Is he compensating for anything?”

The blush spread out from Molly’s cheeks to her neck and further down as she remembered. “It’s not fair,” she moaned miserably. “He’s -- perfect.”

“He’s Sherlock,” Sally snorted. “He could be hung like a gerbil and you’d be all, ‘Well, he’s got a talented tongue.’”

“He is not hung like a gerbil!” Molly defended. “Trust me, I’m being objective here. He’s --” she bit her lip, trying to hold in her giggles. “He’s -- it’s like Goldilocks -- not too big, not too small, just right. Nice thickness and a little curve to make things interesting.”

Sally burst out laughing. “You are so in love with him,” she teased. “You can’t even describe his cock without blushing and stammering. You think he knows you’re going to be using that for your fantasy fodder?”

Peals of laughter emitted from Molly. “Going to? You mean already have.”

“No!” Sally’s jaw dropped. “That’s pretty gutsy of you.”

Molly snorted. “No, not really -- he slept on the couch -- if he ever slept at all. I got the bedroom so I had some privacy.”

“You know he knows,” Sally giggled. “He probably deduced it from your breathing patterns or something else.”

The blush returned, but Molly’s expression was unrepentant. “What I do in the privacy of my bedroom is my own business,” she said. “Besides it was that or going mad. And he never said anything, so --”

“I’m not judging,” Sally replied. “I totally understand.”

“So what happened with you and Mycroft?” Molly changed the subject. “Last thing Sherlock told me was that you were annoying him. I guessed you were bored.”

Sally rolled her eyes, before grabbing her mobile and Molly’s. Molly’s eyes widened in surprise as Sally headed into the bathroom with them. She heard a drawer open, the phones dropped in and then the drawer shutting. Sally switched on a radio, settling on a French pop station, before exiting and closing the bathroom door.

“Paranoid much?” Molly arched an eyebrow as Sally settled back down on the couch. She handed Sally a madeline.

“Cautious,” Sally replied, then took a bite. “I’ve seen the face of the United Kingdom’s surveillance system and it’s terrifying.” And with that, she told Molly everything -- about the press hounding her, Mycroft’s minions popping up at the most inopportune times, the questioning and the fact that the British government apparently asked her out on a date.

By the end, Molly’s face was red with giggles as she began preparing cups of tea for them. “The thought of you making an advance on Sherlock is hilarious,” Molly snickered. “As opposed to you finding him unbearable at a crime scene.”

“He was unbearable,” Sally retorted. “The only one who has patience with him is you -- and maybe John. Actually, he still is unbearable with the secrets and swanning around like he’s so special. I’m still thinking about killing him and making you hide his body.”

“I know,” Molly handed Sally her a cup of tea. “You might have to get in line. After all of this, John may demand first dibs. So what are you going to do about Mycroft?”

“I don’t know,” Sally sighed. “Really, I’m just trying to deal with the day to day and the thought of dating just ---” she made a disgusted noise. “But looking back, I think he was trying to court me in his own weird way.”

Molly nodded, as she opened a box of pastries and nibbled on an almond croissant. “Hey, if someone was trying to impress me by filling my freezer with ice cream, I’d give him serious consideration. And then he also left flowers and didn’t rearrange your kitchen -- he’s more restrained than Sherlock, you have to give him that.”

“Up until the point where I was tailed by his security detail,” Sally grabbed another madeline from the box and bit into it. “I’m not sure if that means he’s lazy in his footwork or if he was doing his job.”

“Well, it started out like that,” Molly observed. “Like most things. You figure out how you played into everything yet?”

Sally shrugged. “I figured they worked together on something,” she said. “I suspect everyone knew I’d behave in a certain way and used that to their advantage.”

“Knowing that and what came after, would you have changed anything?”

Sally laughed, “You know that answer.”

Molly nodded. “Of course not,” she grinned.

“Like you’d change a damn thing.”

Molly laughed.

Sally took a nibble of the madeleine. “So what’s the plan now?”

“Well --” Molly’s face lit up. “I have another surprise.

“You really are pregnant with his child.”

“Shut. Up,” Molly said with a mischievous grin. “Sherlock mentioned that you were forced to take garden leave.”

Sally nodded. “I don’t know what will happen,” she admitted, “But we’ll see how it goes.”

“Well, that means you’re free right? Free to travel?”

“Yeah,” Sally said cautiously.

Molly bounced over to the table and grabbed the envelope. “Well, before Sherlock left, he passed this onto me.” She dumped the contents on the couch in front of Sally. “I think it was his way of saying thanks, but he also warned me that London is still a bit too spikey to return to just yet.”

Sally began chewing her lip as she stared at the items. “What on earth are you talking about?” She could feel something magical about to happen, but part of her was expecting reality to hit her in the face.

Molly grinned. Fanning out the plane tickets and brochures like a magician,  Sally could see various destination printed on them -- Las Vegas, Shanghai, Jamaica and Morocco were some of the names on them.

“What I’m saying,” Molly said with a bright smile. “Is where do you want to go today?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done! Thank you for reading this little tale. I also thank everyone who took the time to comment and kudo this, because it was nice knowing that people enjoyed reading it.
> 
> I also have to thank GS Jenner (who lives among the British like a nature show presenter. Observing. Commenting on their behavior and also a badass wit) for her Brit-picking and beta reading. Without that, I don't think that I would've been as secure in how modern London works.


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